More Raptor Than Robot
by Crystal Shekeira
Summary: G1. Starscream has nursed his hatred of Solarflare for a very long time. Struck with inspiration, the Air Commander devises a way to make good on Solarflare's personal motto ... to turn it into her curse ... and her undoing.
1. Prologue: The Plan

**More Raptor Than Robot**

_Who overcomes  
By force, hath overcome but half his foe.  
Paradise Lost. Book i. Line 648._

It was not an obsession.

Well, he kept telling himself that, whenever he caught himself picturing a new move being played out on her sleek grey body. How could he, Starscream, grand Air Commander for the Decepticons soil himself with thoughts of lovingly ripping out her power core and using a laser scalpel to delicately sever her spark from her Energon-spouting corpse? No, it was mere planning for a time when he was able to perform such tasks. He was not _obsessed_ with the lowly, dirt-slagging female-based robot. No, not ever.

"Obsession" was what the rest of his Decepticon comrades called Starscream's intensely-nursed hatred of the Autobot Solarflare – behind his back, for the most part. To his face when they were being snarky and had a head start.

On one particular day, confined to the bowels of their underwater, defunct spacecrusier, the Seekers and the Cassetticons Rumble and Frenzy had convened (minus Starscream) to entertain themselves. Having run through most of their pirated copies of VH1's _Pop-Up Video_ series, the Seekers sent the Cassetticons into the vault to find something of more meritous entertainment. After a good deal of squabbling and shoving, the two emerged with a slim black volume; no words were written on the outside, nor upon examination of the inside. It was completely and utterly beneath their notice – but they decided to pop it in and watch it for the slag of it anyway.

"Maybe it's a secret Pleasure Hall holo," sniggered Thundercracker, throwing his long legs up on the scarred coffee table.

Rumble sniffed. "Yeah, but of who?" he asked.

Thundercracker reached down and plucked the thin case from the blue bot's hands, holding it up and out of reach, grinning as Rumble danced his ubiquitous dance, arms flailing above his head as he jumped, twisted and contorted in a vain effort of retrieving what he'd found. "Uh-uh, pipsqueak. Mine now. Warp! Catch!"

Easily done. The teleportationist snatched the case in midair, deftly popping it apart and sliding its contents into the viewer port.

… **private log: air commander starscream …** scrolled across the screen. Someone hooted in the back, an instinctual response to this major oversight. Everyone knew that Starscream was a fool, but to leave a record of his personal logs so that any low-ranking melee warrior could find it? That was beyond comprehension; Starscream had many failings, but he was not one to be caught with his exhaust port out.

… **object: autobot solarflare **

… **class: communications **

… **technical data thus accumulated …**

Seekers and Cassetticons leaned forward, lip components slack in the face of this information. They longed to look at each other, in the glaring violet light of the virtual log, but they couldn't tear their optics away for one parsec. As their optics took in the diagrams and charts of Solarflare's weaponry, her flight and fighting capabilities, their cortexes worked over memories of the past, when they had teased Starscream mercilessly for his obsession. It had been in jest, really … now they were unsure.

In their stunned silence, the rec room door slid open, completely unnoticed. Until a shrill exclamation of rage shattered their stupor.

"YOU DARE DEFILE MY PERSONAL PROPERTY!"

Unfortunately, Rumble found his vocalizer component first, and offered up the most inane of apologies: "Well, it was in the vault, Screamer. Your name wasn't on it."

Anger piqued, Starscream stormed stiff-legged through the open space of the rec room and reached for the remote held by Thundercracker. Galvanized by the Air Commander's femme-like response to his logs being rifled through, the blue Seeker made the mistake of laughing. Starscream's black fist smashed with deadly precision into the left side of Thundercracker's face; metal caved inwards, up at an angle which caused a jagged piece of malleable Cybertronian plating to slam into the Seeker's optic. If Thundercracker thought he had gotten the wrong end of an energy conductor at the blow, he was sorely mistaken; howling like a banshee in a windstorm, the blue Seeker shoved himself to his feet, thick black palm plastered to his damaged face. Between clenched fingers, sparks spat in a stream of gold and white amidst the hissing of a punctured cable.

"Way to go, Screamer," Skywarp snarled. "Now we all know you're obsessed with the Autobot bitch." He stood and grabbed Thundercracker by the elbow joint, leading him out the rec room door and down to Scrapper's domain for repairs.

Curling his lip, Starscream reached out for the discarded remote, only to discover that it was bent in the middle, impressions of giant fingers striping the uniform greyness.

_Click. _

_Click. _

_Clickclick**click!**_

In a fit of rage, Starscream threw the remote against the wall and wrenched the chair Thundercracker had been sitting in from its bolted position and heaving it across the room to meet with the remote. The images upon the screen remained as they were: a frozen, eternal moment in time – the Autobot femme Solarflare, her talons sunk deep into Decepticon plating, moments before she would flare her wings out and take a chunk with her.

Eying the destruction with a certain level of self-satisfaction, he turned around and saw that Frenzy and Rumble were watching him. "Get out of here!"

"Yeah, sure, Screamer," Frenzy sneered, grabbing his brother by the arm and bounding out the door. "Just clean up after you're done! Megatron doesn't like oil stains on the furniture!" It was a good thing the little Cassetticons were nimble; they barely ducked under the furious weight of the coffee table as it came sailing through the air to smash into a tangled heap on the floor.

Grumbling to himself, Starscream pivoted to face the screen, his lip curling in extreme distaste. He had enough restraint left in his burning circuits to gently push the eject button and reclaim his stolen property. Lifting the cube to his crimson optics, the Seeker gnawed on his lower lip component; how had his log gotten into the vault, anyway? Everything he owned was under several layers of security – what little he had managed to salvage from the Nemesis.

It was tempting, so very tempting to crush this little cube and spend the rest of his miserable life upon this dirt hole denying it ever existed. It wasn't enough that his fellow Seekers failed to take him and his plans seriously; now they possessed more potent ammunition. Starscream pinched the cube between thumb and forefinger; he heard the casing groan under the pressure, threaten to burst at the seams.

"Rrh! Damn you, bitch," he snarled, and tucked the cube into the relative safety of his personal subspace domain. Something had to be done – and quickly. As Starscream walked the tilted corridors of the underwater cruiser, his complex cortex was running through various assassination possibilities. There was no chance of setting Soundwave down to the Ark – for one, the communications lackey wouldn't listen to him unless he was given a direct order from Megatron, and even then, it was with thinly veiled contempt. Also, these days, Ark security made slagging sure that the orange ship was locked tighter than a turbo-fish's ass … _That blasted Red Alert_, he snarled under his vocalizer. Not to mention that colorless femme rarely left her quarters. Yet another difference between the Autobots and Decepticons – Megatron demanded that all soldiers fight, original programming or no.

Starscream thought fleetingly of Senneca, one of Megatron's few femme operatives. Too bad they'd never been able to recover her, save the head those infuriating twins dropped at their door. With Senneca, they'd had a chance … now, who knew.

As loathe as he was to admit it, the only solution Starscream could come up with involved himself. But how? Therein lay the crux of the matter. The Air Commander paused at one of the viewing windows and laid his forearms upon the bar, staring out into the cool, deathlike stillness of the ocean. Without rhyme or reason, his gaze flitted to the sandy bottom, strung with lines of coral. As he watched with abstract distraction, a sea cucumber undulated by, its bulbous body filling the Seeker with a sense of revulsion. Still, he watched, as there was nothing better to do, and he needed the time alone to think. Down below, the cucumber wriggled into a hole in the coral; moments later, its head – or what Starscream assumed to be such – popped out the front. When it didn't move again, the Seeker became agitated and turned away from the window. _Ugly little worm,_ he thought contemptuously.

And a light went off in his scientific, devious cortex.

Why _not_ a worm? A virus! A computer virus designed to eat away at Solarflare's mind until she was nothing more than a slavering husk destined for the scrap heap! "Yes, Starscream, you are a genius," he muttered to himself, pivoting around to stare at the sea cucumber. "It seems that there _is_ intelligent life on this mud ball!" The sea cucumber could have cared less; it slowly slunk backwards into the relative safety of the coral hull.

Shoving himself free of the rail, Starscream walked with brisk pace towards Scrapper's lab, hoping that the Constructicon would be out at this hour, possibly working topside on one of Megatron's failed projects. Yes, a virus, he thought with devious delight. The scientist in him thrilled at the prospect of creating, the Decepticon in him reveled in making sure that Solarflare's torture lasted as long as possible; that she would be aware up until the last minute that everything she had been was slowly disintegrating.

As luck would have it, Scrapper was not in residence. Quickly, for time was short, Starscream ripped into the lab, taking up the microscope, the solder, chips, pins, wires … all that he needed to create his viral program. As he sat down with the tools of destruction laying in precise arrangements around him, he considered the method of introduction. Long association with the Autobots made him acutely aware that they would do everything in their power to save their comrades – to the point of suicide missions. Thus, he had to be subtle. Megatron wouldn't be too pleased if a contingent of Autobots showed up at their door.

Subtle, very subtle.

Yes.

* * *

As Starscream was running the program through the simulator, light suddenly spilled across his worktable. "Do care to enlighten me, Starscream," began that cold, calculated voice. "What in the Pit are you doing in Scrapper's lab?" 

Jolted, Starscream scrabbled to cover up his work. Too late – Megatron strolled up to the table, his canon arm in perfect alignment with the Seeker's head. "A project," he spluttered lamely, half his cortex still focused on his scheme.

"Really." Clearly, Megatron was far from impressed. "I did not sanction a project – especially one spearheaded by you." The canon flitted casually from Starscream's head to the datapad simulator. "A virus, Starscream? Don't tell me that this is your newest means of trying to take over leadership." Spoken by anyone else, the words would have been jestful; spoken by Megatron, they were deadly serious.

For once, Starscream had no reason to lie. "No."

Megatron frowned, unimpressed. " 'No'? Then what is it?" He leaned forward, casually placing his thick hand on the back of Starscream's neck, fingers slipping under precious cables. "Who is this virus for, if not for me? Optimus Prime, perhaps?"

Starscream's lip components moved up and down, torn between the truth and the lie that would inevitably save him. "Yes," he replied; and it sounded as fake as he knew it to be. Megatron's fingers dug into his plating, into the cables that brought coolant to his head. Starscream gasped as the pressure increased; he felt the coolant being cut off and his head starting to feel a little warmer than usual.

"Try again."

He could fight this out. He could withstand the strain. He … couldn't! "For the bird!" he shrilled, fingers gouging deep lines into the worktable. Megatron's grip slacked, if but a little. Coolant rushed to Starscream's head in a tidal wave of relief. His cortex swam with the intensity and he swayed slightly on his stool.

A pale grey face with demonic red optics pressed close to his own. "You are using my resources to augment your personal vendetta, Starscream? How droll … how … _stupid_." With a careless shove, the Decepticon leader threw Starscream backwards; the Seeker tumbled off his stool in a tangle of wings and legs. From his position on the floor, he watched as Megatron lifted the viral program to his optics. _No,_ he gasped, _not that!_

"Mighty Megatron!" he wheedled from the floor. "Don't!"

" 'Don't'?" The word was spoken low, almost casually. "Dear Starscream, there is no 'don't', there is only my word and my will. And it is my will that this program be destroyed!"

_Think! Think fast!_ "But – Megatron! If my virus runs as I predict, we can use it on the rest of the Autobots! Tailor it to infect them in different manners, so that they will be kept busy trying to find so many solutions that they'll run out of time."

The datapad dropped low in Megatron's grip as he considered Starscream's words. "Is that so."

"Yes," the Air Commander rasped, starting to sit up. He could see it – that light in Megatron's optics. He was contemplating it.

The datapad rattled to a stop at Starscream's feet. "Very well, Starscream. Take pleasure in acting out your revenge. Just make sure that it works as intended. Otherwise I might have Scrapper use it on _you_."

Starscream scraped obeisance on the floor, just grateful that for once, his invention hadn't been crumbled to dust. Now, to figure out how to implant it – and most importantly, when would he get the opportunity to? Starscream sighed; surveillance wasn't his cup of Energon. But it would be done; he would have revenge – and perhaps an inch of Megatron's respect, at last.


	2. The Grey Angel Has Fallen

**Chapter 1**

_Heard so oft  
In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge   
Of battle.  
Paradise Lost. Book i. Line 275. _

Thin wisps of vapor flowed up and over the edges of the red jet's wings, almost smoke-like so high up in the atmosphere. Outside, frost coated the windows, save for a few places where it had been rubbed away from the inside by a warm human palm.

"Will ya quit that, Spike? I don't fancy scrubbing myself from the inside out."

"Sorry, Powerglide." The hand was quickly removed and a rag replaced it, trying to wipe the greasy smudges away.

The red jet made an unsatisfactory noise deep in his vocalizer. "Gah. Leave it, will ya? Just settle back; I'll turn up the heat."

Chastised, Spike slumped into the cushy pilot's chair, warm brown eyes sliding over to the co-pilot's seat where Carly perched, elbows on Powerglide's console. The young woman was peering intently at the radar panel, her finger idly following the green line as it flicked merrily around the circle. "Glide, how are we going to see anything? We're too far up."

"_You might not,"_ a low, feminine voice chimed in over the comm, "_but that's why I'm here."_

"Flare!" Carly exclaimed. "I forgot you were there; sorry."

"_Easily done,"_ the femme replied.

"Any sign of Decepticon activity?" Powerglide called up, keeping his "voice" on two levels so that Spike and Carly could understand what he was saying to Solarflare.

"_Not yet. I'm beginning to see this as a false trail. We've been cruising for a while, but nothing, not one scrap of breakage over this whole area. If there really was a platform – of any nature – I would've seen signs by now."_

"You just don't trust Red Alert's code-breaking abilities," the jet jested.

A low static rumble over the comm caused both humans to turn to each other and chuckle. "_My opinion of Red does not mean that I doubt him. I just think this is slag; we're wasting fuel. I don't know about you, but being fifty thousand feet up is killing my joints."_

"Ya gotta get out more, Solarflare!"

Carly pressed her face – gently – to Powerglide's window, peering up. Among the vapor, there was a thin black shadow, too distorted by the clouds to resemble anything avian. But she knew that it was Solarflare up there, her keen optics piercing through to the ground below. She closed her ears to the banter between jet and eagle and lost herself in the serene beauty that surrounded them.

"Hmm."

Carly looked up from her musing and peered at Powerglide's panel. Spike had fallen asleep, a thin line of drool winding its way down his chin. _Tsk_ing to herself, Carly sat up and looked down at the radar screen. "What is it?" she asked the red jet.

"Dunno." Powerglide seemed unsure. "Check it for me, Carly. I'm doing a wingover, so wake Spike. I don't want him drooling on me, either." The plane started to tip to the side; Carly reached over and shook Spike a little more severely than she normally would have. The young man spluttered, a line of drool flicking over to land on Powerglide's instrument panel. "Oh, for the love of all that's holy!" the jet cried – and flipped over.

"_Glide? Glide? What is it?"_

"Check it, Carly," Powerglide stated, completely ignoring Solarflare's urgent call for confirmation. Carly slid close, as much as she was able, what with everything tilted and her body strained against the safety straps.

"Movement," she murmured, "definite movement."

"Oh, my head," Spike muttered in the background, sounding slightly sick.

"I knew it!" the plane crowed. "Flare? Got it?"

"_Looking …" _

Powerglide's left wing tipped downwards as he began spiraling in a wide circle. While he did not have Solarflare's augmented sight, he did have something she didn't – radar. With Carly's running commentary, he was able to figure out the approximate location. Calling up to Solarflare, he relayed the coordinates.

"_Oh, yes! There! I see it."_ There was a distinct, heavy pause. "_MIRAGE?"_

"What?" exclaimed three voices. "He's not out on patrol," Powerglide added, confused. The lights on his panel flared to life. "Powerglide and Solarflare to headquarters, urgent! Respond!" A burst of static lit the board up with savage crisscrossing lines of unintelligible sound. Perturbed, Powerglide dipped lower, hoping to Primus that it was only the altitude. "Powerglide to the Ark. Prowl, Prime, Jazz, _anyone_ – respond!"

"_I'll try."_ There was panic in Solarflare's vocalizer, something neither of them could understand, because she had yet to describe what she had seen. Through the open channel, more static erupted in an ear-splitting squeal. "_Jammed! We're jammed, Glide!"_

"Dammit," the jet grumbled. "Well, looks like we're going down. Sweep good, Flare; I only see one, but you never know. Brace yourselves, lady and gent – here we go!"

They had been flying over swampland, which did not provide the best of landing strips. Powerglide had to backtrack a few miles to find suitable space; the ground was muddy, and it splashed up all over his brilliant crimson armor, but it had to be done. As Spike and Carly were gingerly disembarking, the low roar of twin boosters announced the presence of Solarflare. Looking up, the two humans were nearly blinded by a vision: a grey angel alighting on Earth from Heaven. And then the image was broken as Solarflare shook her wings, glancing over her shoulder at the frost that clung thickly to her metallic pinions.

"How far are we?"

Powerglide groaned as he transformed, hands dark with mud; these he flicked at the trees until most of it was gone. Standing straight, he peered into the thickness of the swamp. "Two miles, maybe three," he hazarded. "Can you see anything?"

Solarflare didn't even bother glancing in the direction they'd turned from. "No. Too thick. You'll have to lead us, Glide."

The plane huffed and dipped his shoulder to Spike. "Up you get – and don't tap your feet on me. I'm dirty as it is."

Wearing a scowl at being chastised so much, Spike clambered up and sat in the thin space between Powerglide's head and where his wing jutted straight up above his shoulder. A little taller than the minibot, Flare had about as much room on her own sloping shoulder struts. She knelt in the mud – perhaps as an example to Powerglide, perhaps just to make it easy for Carly – and helped the young woman up. Carly slipped a little and Flare was forced to hold her to her neck with her right hand acting as a brace. A _click_ made Carly look down; Solarflare's left arm had come up and a plate on the back of her wrist had popped open, revealing six thin metal tubes. A quick glance towards the femme's white face let the human woman know that Solarflare had also opened up the chambers behind her optics that would allow her to release a rapid-fire laser blast.

Thus they trudged: two Autobots slogging through the mud and muck with two humans perched on their shoulders – nice and dry, mind. More than once, Solarflare's wings got stuck between two trees or caught up in some vines. Grim determination etched on her face, the avian femme forced her wings into tight alignment against her back – not something easily done, for her eagle's head and chest were also tucked back there. After getting snagged for the fifth time, Solarflare stood back and struck the base of the tree that was causing all the trouble.

"Never get between a femme and her mech," Spike murmured appreciatively as she stalked on through, pushing the fallen denizen to the side with a casual shove.

"Damn right," Powerglide muttered, eying the long slashes on the bark of the tree as he passed.

"Will you two stop jabbering? Powerglide's supposed to be up front," Carly called back.

"Yes, ma'am," both males chorused. Powerglide reached up and pushed a stray branch away with his pistol, holding it up for Solarflare to pass through. Flare flicked her trifold crest in thanks, lifting her pyramidal black feet high to step over a fallen log; once under, Powerglide again took the lead, a thin green film covering his optics as he checked his radar.

"_Weapons drawn, Flare,"_ he cautioned. "_I get two now." _

"_Let's put them down,"_ she recommended, head turning this way and that, searching for a suitable – and dry – patch of land. Spotting a pile of logs to the right, she started lowering herself into the murky water. "Carly," the grey femme whispered softy, almost inaudibly, "we're going to drop you here. Powerglide's got two on the radar. Here," she added, setting the woman down and pulling a thin pad from her outer left thigh, "if anything happens, get out as fast as you can. Use this to contact base."

"We're not leaving you," Carly replied stubbornly, refusing the comm pad. Frowning, Solarflare lowered herself further into the muddy water, repressing a shudder of revulsion as a thin snake wound on by.

"You will do as you're ordered. Do I look like Optimus or Bumblebee to you?" A hint of avian shriek underlay her words. "Now, take it." Taloned fingers pressed the pad into Carly's hands; the woman, unprepared for the weight, stumbled and nearly slipped off the tree. "And stay put," Flare called over her shoulder, palming her purple pistol from the black holster attached to her right hip.

As she walked towards Powerglide, the red jet was eying her with a certain amount of respect in his blue optics. "_No one's gotten Carly to stay like that before,"_ he murmured over-comm.

"_Ain't got time to play,"_ she replied, flicking the safety off her pistol and raising it to killing height.

Powerglide kept his vocalizer shut; he'd seen this reaction before – usually it was Mirage who grew deathly serious and brooked no argument. There was definitely something more to those two than met the optic; something that went beyond their relationship. "_Well." _Powerglide paused and considered his radar. "_Funny,"_ he muttered aloud, "_now there's only one."_

Solarflare looked at him over her shoulder strut, her black lips set grimly. Powerglide said no more, only continued to slog through the muck, his head turning this way and that in an effort to get a clear fix on the object Solarflare had identified as the Autobot spy Mirage. "_Two clicks to the right, Flare,"_ he reported at last.

And so they forged on ahead, one to the right, one to the left of the path between the spiraling trees. Their feet churned up long-settled mud on the bottom of the swamp, oozing into the thin gaps in their armor and generally making it a slow-go. A slight mist hung over the area and settled upon their shoulders, coating them with a fine cloak of droplets. Solarflare shook her head and blew through her nose, raining delicate globules down upon her chest plate; these then gathered into thin rivers and ran down her stomach to her hips, broke off into smaller tributaries winding their way along her legs. Water ran down her top lip and over her face, but she paid no heed, other than to snort now and again – not the most ladylike of actions. But now, she was not a lady; she was a fiercesome formel hunting her tercel – and no one would get in her way.

For such large creatures, the two Transformers moved stealthily, guns at the ready. Powerglide had to check his radar now and again to make sure that Flare was still with him; she was almost as good as Mirage, but he believed this was due more to her coloration than skill. Coated in mud and muck, she nearly blended into the background. After more than half and hour lumbering about, the terrain opened up into a round basin of swamp water. The trees that ringed the area were tall and thick, rising upwards to the icy sky like pillars on a temple. And in the middle of this sacred space was the spy, stuck nose-first in the mud, his left rear tire idly spinning.

"_Well, I'll be a broken-tailed biplane,"_ Powerglide hissed. "_It_ is _him."_

Solarflare completely lost her battle frame of cortex; her hands dropped – and so did her mouth. "This can't be," she cried aloud, at a loss. "He – there's no way – he should be here!"

Powerglide, too, was perplexed. This was no place for the Formula-1 racer – how he had even gotten through the trees in altmode, the jet would never know. He trudged around the basin, poking his foot around in the mud to see if there was any holographic projector hiding there. "Hey, Mirage, ol' buddy, can ya hear us?" And he leaned down to rap on the top of the spy's blue cockpit. As if in response, the tire that was spinning began to jiggle. Powerglide lifted his head to see Flare slowly walking around the scene, her optics narrowed, her lips moving silently, talking to herself or to Mirage; Powerglide did not know the answer to that, either.

"C'mon, Mr. Invisible," the jet cajoled, tucking his gun back into its subspace compartment; he set his hands under the spy's undercarriage and began wiggling him back and forth, trying to pull him free from the mud, "this can't be tasty."

The tire shook again – and then Mirage's whole frame began to rock violently. The racecar bucked forward like a prize bull, throwing Powerglide down on his aft in the swamp. As Solarflare watched, horrified, the spy's body split in two … and Starscream emerged from the shell casing.

He was a demonic butterfly emerging from a rusty cocoon, slothing this second skin in an easy, simple shrug of his bewinged shoulders. Covered in mud from head to toe, the Air Commander lifted his right arm and wordlessly fired a single shot at Powerglide.

Before the red jet's cortex could even form the word "ambush", he was hit. Laser fire blasted clearly through his plating, sending the burst straight on through to the other side. Though wet, the intensity of the concentrated laser discharge ignited the ancient wood. Garish, ghoulish fire lit the swamp, a lone beacon in the mist.

"NO!"

Starscream pivoted just in time to take a shot from Solarflare's pistol in the chest. Coughing, he stumbled backwards, tripping over the pretender shell. Rising like a sparking Phoenix from the muck and clutching his injury, Powerglide rammed the Decepticon in the back.

"Where're your buddies, Screamer?" Powerglide taunted, his left arm hanging limp by his side, the gaping wound oozing liquid Energon and a black, oillike substance. Bits of pink-tinted foam bubbled from behind his mask; this he dashed away with his free hand, one that immediately began searching for his firearm.

"I need no 'buddies'," the Decepticon sneered, lifting his arm for another shot.

A second blast rang out from Flare's pistol; she fired again and again as Starscream twisted and turned in the morass that was beginning to form in the swamp from all the churned up silt. The Decepticon dodged the first two, but caught the third in the shoulder. Down by his left, Powerglide managed to fumble his gun free. Seeing that now was the time, the Air Commander thrust all available power to the boosters in his heels; steam rolled up, water boiled from the intensity. Taking advantage of his foes' temporary blindness, Starscream drew a bead on Powerglide with his left arm and Solarflare with his right. Several rapid-fire bursts of his lasers cut through the chaos. A second later, he was rewarded with their screams.

As loathe was he was to leave this unfinished, it was all part of the plan. Pulling the thin, one-time launcher from subspace, Starscream loaded the special payload into its muzzle. Down below, the mist was slowly clearing, giving him the most perfect of shots at Solarflare. _Too bad, too, too bad,_ he mused, _I can't just kill you now. But I promised Megatron an example. And you are it. Good bye, little bitch._

With a rumble reminiscent of distant thunder, the missile left the launcher and streaked as a vengeful angel towards its intended target. Solarflare looked up just in time to witness her undoing hurtle towards her on wings of fire, the face of Satan laughing in the background.

And she fell.

The missile tore through her stomach and bounced off her laser core, plowing right under her spark chamber. Foam, liquid and air burst out from her open mouth as her stomach exploded, dumping all the fuel she had consumed that morning out onto the grimy surface of the swamp. Her body shook as the projectile discharged its exclusive warhead, lodging in her spine.

Stunned, her body's warning system went berserk; one optic exploded, throwing shards of golden glass into the water. With smoke and other grisly liquids sloshing from every orifice, Solarflare tipped headfirst into Hell.

* * *

Carly squatted by Solarflare's head, up to her waist in filth. Beyond where the avian femme lay, Spike sat with Powerglide while the red jet radioed for help by the smoking remnants of the old tree. True to form, once they'd heard the call of battle, the two young humans had abandoned their safe spot and made their way through the swamp, only to arrive in the aftermath. It had been easy to locate Powerglide; the red jet's paint, though splattered with mud, half-processed Energon and God-knew what else, was a beacon in the dark, illuminated by the flames. Solarflare … well, that was another matter. Starscream had done his worst – she lay flat on her front, the water gently lapping over her broken wings, sparks haphazardly spitting out in faint golden bursts. Grey metal blossomed outwards, blackened at the tips; Carly ruminated in the back of her mind that it reminded her of a carnation – ones that had been dyed for special occasions. From these gaping holes, blue foam bubbled, a froth created by a punctured ventilator.

"Will you guys hurry up?" she called over her shoulder, and surprised herself with the tremors in her voice. Carly laid her hands on Solarflare's charred crest, slowly stroking the big grey femme's head, trying to soothe the hurts she had no extensive knowledge on away. Solarflare shuddered, long, once. Water gurgled from her mouth, strands of coolant floating along the surface of the swamp.

"We're trying," Spike called back, his voice equally strained. "How's it coming?" he asked Powerglide. The minibot jet was tinkering with the comm-unit Solarflare had given Carly.

"Better," he pronounced, flipping it over one-handed, using his hip as a prop. "Thank Primus Screamer's jammer was sitting right with him." Powerglide gave one dial a final twist. "Ah, there we go. Powerglide to the Ark, come in."

Across the way, Carly clapped her hands to her ears to dam the flow of screeches that blew up from the unit's small speaker.

"Okay. Let's try that again," the jet coughed, chagrin coating his vocalizer. "Powerglide to the Ark – emergency. Respond."

The comm unit fizzled and popped – but it worked. "_Blaster here. What's wrong?"_

"Screamer ambushed us. Made himself up to look like Mirage and fooled us into taking a course into the swamp. I've got a busted shoulder and wing." He paused and glanced over at Solarflare. "But Flare's bad, Blaster. She's got a blown middle and pouring coolant and Energon all over the place."

Though the screen was fuzzy, Blaster's expression was clear – shock and concern. "_I'm sending a party out to recover you. Stay put and don't move."_

Powerglide abstained from rolling his optics, though he doubted Blaster could see him, anyway. "Don't worry, neither of us can walk well." The comm fizzled, spat and went dead. Perturbed, Powerglide chucked the unit into the swamp and hesitantly got to his feet. Spike dodged and landed in the mud as the red jet tipped to the left, then to the right. Getting his equilibrium under control, Powerglide lumbered over to where Carly sat with Flare and squatted by her side. Though Flare was taller by a foot or so, she weighed far less; slipping his one good hand under Flare's chest, Powerglide went around to her back and started pulling her upright.

Water, dark and chunky, gushed forth from her slack jaws, splattering over her mud-covered chestplate, painting it with flecks of green and blue. Air hissed from fractured pipes, dank, fetid. "C'mon, Flare, c'mon, little bird." Dim light shown from her one good optic; the other was plastered with mud, giving her a rakish, pirate appearance. "C'mon, Flare, Screamer can't hit the broad side of a storage cell. You're not that bad." _Yes, you are,_ he thought, the truth of the matter cold in his Energon pump.

Beyond, Carly and Spike sat, trying to keep each other warm as darkness settled gently about the swamp. They tried not to look at the water, into the woods, where unsavory and potentially-poisonous things dwelled. Just as their shivering began to become uncontrollable, the roar of powerful jet engines filled the air. Though obscured in part by the trees, Skyfire's massive form was unmistakable.

"Ahoy!"

A thick coil of rope fluttered down through a gap in the foliage, followed almost immediately by the boxy white form of Ratchet. The Chief Medical Officer landed with a sickening squelch, the grim set of his face swiftly changing to one of revulsion. His cold optics swept the scene, evaluating the situation in a parsec. Looking up, Ratchet tugged the rope; reacting to the signal, a large cage descended from Skyfire's hold, hovering inches above the mud. A second squelch heralded the arrival of First Aid; the junior medic's optics grew twice their normal size at the sight.

"Get used to it, youngster," Ratchet groused, slogging through the sludge to reach his patients. "Attend to Powerglide; I'll take Flare. You two," he called over his shoulder, not even turning around, "get in, _now_." Too tired and cold to protest, Carly and Spike jumped at the order, almost racing each other in order to get into the cage.

Looping an arm around the minibot's shoulders, First Aid braced Powerglide, gently easing him from under Solarflare's body. Before his grip was totally relinquished, Ratchet was there, scooping the wounded femme up into his arms. With an optic honed to almost godlike precision, the medic quickly analyzed her injuries and ticked them off in his cortex. There would be long, long hours in the bay, but thankfully, nothing was life-threatening: the missile – missiles, he corrected – had bounced off her core, missing her spark casing by mere inches. That was, unless they returned to the Ark too slow and the mud stuffed into every available inch of her frame managed to clog anything else vital. "_You'll live to fly again,"_ gruff Ratchet murmured to the femme, though she could not hear her, having gone into stasis-lock.

With coolant and Energon seeping through his fingers, the CMO climbed up into the cage. First Aid reached out and tugged the rope; slowly, the cage lifted, bringing the warriors into the cool night air and into salvation.


	3. In the Interim

**Chapter Two**

_Vain wisdom all and false philosophy.  
Paradise Lost. Book ii. Line 565._

The femme was a better shot than he'd anticipated. Smoke and sparks trailed over his shoulder, down along his chest. The metal on his fantastic frame was charred, smoke-blackened along the edges where Solarflare's lucky blasts had made contact. Starscream's lip curled – first in distaste, then in triumph. He might be sporting the scars of battle, but these were successful scars. By now, if things were going according to plan, the femme's comrades would be hauling her timebomb of a carcass back to the Ark. And if all went well – no reason why it shouldn't – he, Starscream, would witness might Megatron leading a charge against the Ark.

And perish when he discovered that the virus that had been implanted into Solarflare had not corrupted all the Autobots.

A little lie to save a little hide, that was all. Though Megatron was a grand tactician and warlord, he was a little slow in the scientific portion of society. This was the precise reason why he'd brought the Constructicons from Cybertron in the first place, under the pretense of needing a combiner team as reinforcements. Megatron might conceive ostentatious plans, but he was incapable of putting them together himself. Thus, it was so easy to fool the grey warrior into thinking that Solarflare was the vessel who would bring the Autobots to their knees; Megatron might have some notion of viruses, but he could not properly interpret the codes Starscream had inserted into the program.

A month, Starscream had told the Decepticon leader; one month, for it was a time-release virus. Why arouse the Autobots' suspicions with Solarflare's quick execution? That would only bring them upon their base en-force. Begrudgingly, Megatron accepted this term, noting that Starscream would lead the charge on the Ark, as it was only fitting. At that moment, Starscream felt a tendril of the unknown worm into his spark – had it been approval? Had it been an acknowledgement of Starscream's obvious cortexal superiority? Whatever it was, he liked it.

Lost in his thoughts, the Seeker nearly bypassed the entrance tube as it rushed up through the deep blue-green waves of the Pacific Ocean. Water broke off the top and sides of the giant elevator, sloshing over purple spires and ledges that served no tactical purpose. Starscream flipped in midair, thrusting his feet forward and turning up the burn; pain shot up his left shoulder, down across his chest and spread along his back. The Air Commander snarled; he'd forgotten about Powerglide's pointed head ramming him in the back. Perhaps that small inconvenience had cost him more than he'd thought.

With the top flap of his left wing flickering merrily in the wind, Starscream landed. Flame billowed out from under his heels, licking the blue paint of his toes and creating small black circles on the ramp. Not that they'd be noticed – hundreds of the same spheres dotted the ramp, with only the wind and rain to clean them up. Starscream sniffed; maybe he'd order Rumble and Frenzy up here to clean it. Sulfur and ozone did not mix well with the scents of the ocean. _Slaggin' organic mud ball._

Glad to put this mission behind him, the Seeker stepped down and began walking to the elevator that would take him into the bowels of the ship. As he strolled along, one shadow disengaged itself from its brethren. Caught unawares, Starscream stepped back, calling out, "Autobot spy!"

Harsh, cold laughter filtered back to him. "Really, Starscream, did you think that Solarflare's oft-heralded toy would get here so fast?" Ice-red optics danced in the darkness – and not through mirth. "Or did your plan not go as you predicted? Are you being followed? Did the spy take wind of this adventure?" Each question brought Megatron closer until he was standing over Starscream, the barrel of his canon pointed conveniently at the Seeker's chest.

Thinking fast, Starscream coughed and stuck his chest out proudly. "Of course not, Mighty Megatron. Everything went perfectly."

A vice closed around his throat as Megatron pulled Starscream towards him. "Really. You are damaged. That does not speak of 'perfection'."

"Mere trivialities, Megatron," Starscream squawked, realizing that his feet were dangling inches off the floor, arms flailing uselessly by his sides. "Solarflare has been implanted. And within the month, we shall march victorious upon the Ark."

"With you leading," the Decepticon leader snarled quietly, increasing the pressure on Starscream's throat and taking little amusement from how the Seeker's optics danced in his face. "You do remember that part, don't you, Starscream?"

The Seeker vainly tried to hold back a cough; he failed. "Yes, yes," he prattled, feet swinging. "Lead the charge and pave the way for your glorious entrance."

"You have such a pretty way with words when your spark hangs in the balance," Megatron mused, his optics never leaving his lackey's. "Perhaps you should have been an entertainer instead of a scientist." He held the Seeker there a moment more, savoring the knowledge that Starscream was well aware he could terminate his life whenever he chose. It was delicious fare. Alas; he threw the Seeker down and began to melt back into the darkness. "Get up off your aft, Starscream; there are plans to be made."

"Yes, Megatron." Starscream looked up, intense hatred etched into every line of his facial plates. No one, not even Optimus Prime, could abhor Megatron any more than he. "It will be as you say …" … _until later,_ he finished, picking himself up. There were repairs to be made and he didn't fancy pestering Scrapper.

---

Powerglide was not looking forward to the moment Mirage walked through the door. The red jet lay on his back in the main med bay, his damaged arm in a sling attached to the ceiling and impromptu soldering around the cracks in his head – souvenirs from his little brawl with Starscream. He didn't mind being left to wait; his injuries were severely minimal compared to the brutal damage the Seeker had inflicted upon the grey avian femme. And he'd been there with her; he was supposed to have backed her up.

No, Powerglide did not fancy a meeting with the white-blue spy. He kept his head turned towards the door, a million and one explanations, excuses and escape plans running through his cortex.

When the doors sluiced open, Powerglide opened his vocalizer to offer acute apologizes – to prostrate himself on the floor if necessary – and noticed that there were two Transformers entering. Hound was with Mirage, the green tracker's arm draped over the spy's shoulder. Hound was talking low and fast to his friend; the spy nodded once or twice, never speaking. As they drew closer, Powerglide caught wind of their conversation.

"Don't take it so hard, Raj," Hound was saying; and from his tone, he'd oft-repeated the phrase. "You heard Prime; Ratchet told him she'd be fine. Battered, banged, but alive."

"You don't understand, Hound," the spy finally said, easily slipping out of Hound's grasp and walking over to the wide Plexiglas window that overlooked the operating theatre.

"What don't I understand?" Hound stayed back, hands clasped behind him. There was a touch of pain in his vocalizer, perhaps at being told that this was not a situation he was familiar with. "Tell me, Raj."

Mirage sighed and leaned forward, placing both hands on the glass. "What she means to me," he said at last. "I failed her once; I don't want to fail her again."

"Fail? How on Cybertron did you fail her?"

"I allowed her to die. If it had been me that day, she wouldn't have fallen to Ravage's attack. She would have remained human."

Acute doubt was in Hound's reply. "You're telling me that you don't appreciate what she is now? You know very well that you could never be together if she'd still been human."

"There are ways, I'm sure," he said after a long pause. "Seaspray and Powerglide seem to do well enough."

Powerglide's head lifted at _that_. What the slag did Mirage think went on between he and Astoria? But the jet wished to remain in one piece, so he kept his vocalizer shut.

"Be realistic, Mirage," Hound snapped. "That's your self-doubt talking. Do you really think Flare would turn human and give up what she has? I don't think so. She loves you, she loves what she is."

"What she is was caused by this damned war," the spy spat furiously, hands clenching along the glass. "This is no place for her; she should be surrounded by luxury, lauded as a queen …"

Hound stepped up just then and laid a hand on Mirage's shoulder. His fingers dug into the other's plating, enough to make the spy's head lift from its bow. "Continue to fight and we'll win this. And then you can take her back to Cybertron and make her the queen of the Towers." When the spy's head lifted further, and the light of sanity returned to his sky blue optics, Hound hauled back and soundly clapped Mirage on the back. "See! Wheeljack is giving us the thumbs' up. Told ya." And jabbed Mirage again with his elbow.

Powerglide twisted around, but his arm kept him back. Grumbling, the jet tugged a little harder. _Almost there …_ And fell off the platform.

Green tracker and white-blue spy turned their heads, seemingly unaware of his presence before the clatter. "Uh, hello, Hound, Mirage," Powerglide lamely announced, his battered arm flopping uselessly at his side as he tried to right himself. To his surprise, both of them walked over, lifted the jet and then jury-rigged him into the sling. "Uh, you're not going to slag me, are you?"

Mirage paused in looping the extra length of chain around the pin that held the sling. "What do you mean?"

Powerglide's optics blinked furiously. Apparently he had just miscalculated; perhaps that wasn't the best thing to say, to remind the boyfriend that he was part of the mission that caused the girlfriend to be slagged. "Never mind."

Mirage's brow ridges drew down over his blue optics as he looked across to Hound. "I do not hold you accountable for what happened, Powerglide," he said at last. Slowly, he lifted his hand and patted the red jet on his good shoulder. "Rest up; we'll talk later."

And Powerglide nearly died and became one with the Matrix.

* * *

Let no one tell you that becoming conscious is like rising from a warm bath. Consciousness was sharp, painful and it brought back dark memories. Only once before had she woken up to reality in this manner – the moment she had been resurrected as a Transformer. The sensory messages her cortex was sending her varied little from that first time. Primary awareness focused immediately on the pump that beat in her chest, one that pushed processed Energon throughout her system, as well as regulated the amount of coolant, lubricant and other miscellaneous fluids her metallic body needed to function. It was a comforting feeling, one that soothed the influx of panic. This was immediately followed by the knowledge that her ventilator was working smoothly, bringing air through her intakes and back again.

Static flickered across her optics; a self-diagnostic scan flipped up in the upper right-hand corner of her right optic – **power: maximum / systems: optimal**. Pie-charts, graphs and other lines rolled by too quickly for her to discern what they meant. She was too busy remembering what fingers and toes (she only had two, really) and wingtips felt like to care. A low moan passed her sticky lips; her taste sensor registered stale lubricant and coolant coating the inside of her mouth. Her chest compressing, Solarflare coughed, vile revulsion straining her new digestive chamber as she sought to rid herself of the foulness.

Work roughened metallic hands turned her head; a tube was inserted, water forced through it to clean her from the inside out. Flare coughed again but had enough presence of cortex to spit when she'd finished rolling the liquid around. "Th …nk … oo," she whispered.

Grey lines streaked her vision, growing fainter by the moment. As she lifted her head, a face came into view. **Autobot … Ratchet. Chief Medical Officer …**

"Flex," a strong, no-nonsense voice commanded. Her arm was lifted up, not of her own volition; Solarflare groaned again – yet, instead of it coming out low, her herald of pain exited her vocalizer as a thin, high keen. "Flex," Ratchet urged. And she complied, willing the hydraulics and the joints and the metal to obey.

First one arm, then the other, then each of her legs in turn. With the CMO's aid, she sat up, another sharp keen dribbling from her charcoal lips. As she sat upon the medical table, pyramidal legs dangling over the edge, Ratchet recounted her injuries and what parts of her they'd had to completely replace.

"How's Powerglide?"

Ratchet shifted on his stool. "Functional," he replied succinctly. "Busted shoulder, cracked helm … extremely minimal compared to you."

"Only because I'm Starscream's favorite dartboard," she groused in return, twisting her wrists to improve range of motion. "It's only 20 to 124, though; I'm not worried."

"What are you talking about?"

She looked up, feeling the trifold crest on her helm respond to her emotions. "Oh." The crest dipped low upon her brow. "I …"

"You keep score, don't you?" Ratchet frowned. "I would have thought better of you, Flare. I told you, stay away from the Twins! They're a bad influence on you."

Flare flicked her optics away and began running her fingers along her side, talons finding the thin lines of repair in her armor. "Yes, Father."

Ratchet gave a snort of derision and turned away. "Well, I'd best call your other half. I'm surprised he hasn't torn down my door already …" Rising from his seat, the boxy medic crossed the surgical theatre to stop before a small comm station. Solarflare watched him walk away, noting the hitch in his gait. She hadn't had the chance to ask how long she'd been under, but judging from Ratchet's stance, he'd been on his feet for a long time. Her optics flicked up to his hips, scrutinizing how he shifted his weight from foot to foot as he spoke to Mirage. As she was running calculations through her cortex, she stopped herself cold. What on Earth was she thinking about? Puzzled, she chalked it up to battle fatigue and time in stasis. She tended to lose track of her surroundings for a few minutes after being repaired.

Yet, when the doors to the surgery sluiced wide, it was not Mirage who walked through, but Optimus Prime and Prowl, the later holding a data pad in his left hand. Inwardly, Flare groaned. She didn't exactly feel like remembering anything right now. Couldn't they talk with Carly and Spike? They were conscious during the event.

Prowl retrieved a stool for Optimus, who lowered his considerable bulk onto the spindly piece of furniture. "Flare, you look well," he began. "Well enough to tell us what happened?"

Solarflare's crest twitched, laid down flush against the smooth curve of her helm. Inside, she felt snarky, but this was Optimus Prime – not someone who would easily be denied. And there was always the fact that he had sanctioned her revival all those years ago. So she answered quietly, "Yes," and in that self-same tone, recounted everything she and Powerglide had seen, heard, and acted upon.

During her account, Prime tapped his chin, Prowl tapped his pad and Ratchet drummed his fingers on the counter, anxious to get on with his day. Finally, the Autobot commander nodded and she stopped, wings twitching in an effort to be out. "Prowl?"

The black and white cruiser looked up from his typing and slipped the pad under his arm. "I hardly believe this to be an isolated incident, Prime. We all know that Starscream has issues with Solarflare; that he focused the brunt of his attack on her, rather than both she and Powerglide, is indicative of it."

"True," Prime mused, stroking his faceplate rhythmically. "Flare?"

She looked up, having spent the past minute studying a crack in the wall. "Yes?"

Behind Optimus, Prowl frowned. She could care less about his opinion. "Do you believe this was a personal attack?" Optimus asked.

She shrugged. "It could be; he did make a prop of Mirage, and he did set up the jamming station."

"I'm going to talk with Red Alert about stepping up surveillance on the outer rim," Prowl said, crossing his arms and tapping the pad against his side. "Starscream knew that Solarflare and Powerglide were going out and he knew exactly where they were headed."

"Do we have enough material?"

"No, not yet. I'll send Bumblebee out sometime this evening."

Optimus rubbed the back of his head. "Indeed. We'll go over plans immediately. Ratchet, call Wheeljack, Grapple and Hoist. Tell them to meet me in the conference room as soon as possible." Prime stood up, levering his red-white-and-blue bulk well over thirty feet in the air. Solarflare, though sitting on a high table, still had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. "Rest up, Flare. We'll see you at briefing tomorrow morning."

"Aye, Optimus," she whispered back, sketching a quick salute when Prowl frowned again. When they'd gone, she turned her head to look at Ratchet. "Can I go back up to my room? I'm tired."

Ratchet looked at her over his shoulder. "No. I want you here for observation purposes. You can use the recharging bed in the other room."

Flare blinked, golden optics winking. "That thing? Ratch … it's enclosed!"

A large black, boxy finger waved in her face. "No backtalk, missy. You'll do as I say, or I'll shut you down."

Grumbling, Solarflare slipped down from the table – and fell on her aft. Ratchet was at her side, levering her up. "Dammit, Solarflare! I just put you back together; tell me next time."

"Sorry," she muttered, feeling her equilibrium swing into place. "I'm okay, really," she told the medic as she attempted to wave off his viselike grip on her upper arm. Ratchet snorted and let her go, watching as she swayed momentarily before her gyroscope righted her out.

And he watched her as she staggered to the door; watched until it closed behind her.

"She'll be all right, you know that," Ratchet spoke to the air.

Mirage came forth, his lean frame appearing from nowhere slowly, subtly. "You're getting good."

"You let me hear you."

Mirage's lips quirked slightly. "Perhaps." He leaned up against the table, hands behind his back. "I'm about this close to taking Starscream out for good."

"Unadvisable, you know that."

"On my own, yes, but that doesn't stop me from doing it on the battlefield."

Ratchet sighed under his breath. "Mirage, this is war."

"So I noticed."

"Mirage," the medic began again, so very weary, "don't let your relationship effect your efforts. I tell you this not as a medic, but as your friend – as Flare's friend."

"And de-facto father."

Ratchet did not reply to that. His face was smooth, almost as impassive as the spy's.

"Don't worry, Ratch," Mirage said. "I know what I'm doing. I'll take Starscream out in battle – if possible and under the right circumstances. I know my limits and I know the rules."

"You don't always heed them."

Mirage's right optic lifted in sardonic humor. "Who does? As you said, Ratch, this is war. You kill the enemy before they can kill you." He rubbed the back of his helm idly before pushing off the table. "I'll see you later; thank you."

As he faded, Ratchet turned around, cleaning up his work area. _Thank you? For what? For giving you a few more precious moments with your bondmate? That is all I can do – extend time until it can't be extended any more. Only Primus knows. Only Primus can keep her safe._

Rachet paused, looking about at the pools of fluid; at the froth from the coolant lining the tiles. _Solarflare. _

_My … daughter …?_

Maybe. It wasn't something he wanted to think about right now. Too complicated. Familial thoughts were safest in peacetime. Ratchet sighed and shoved his hands under the ionizer.


	4. Nightmares

**Chapter Three**

_Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.  
__Paradise Lost. Book i. Line 16._

The recharging chamber was not pretty; it was almost rhomboid in shape and built to contain the tallest Autobots the Ark possessed: namely Prime and Grimlock. (Of course, when Omega Supreme needed to recharge, they hooked him up to a nuclear reactor in Russia – he glowed green for two days, which was slightly amusing.) Solarflare eyed the chamber forlornly; it was something she tried to avoid at all costs. It was too enclosed, made her feel trapped. Perhaps it was due to her form, perhaps some squirreled away human phobia, but she preferred to be out in the open, to be free.

She reached out and fiddled with the control panel, identifying herself so that the chamber wouldn't give her the same amount of energy it would give Bumblebee or, Primus forefend, Grimlock. She'd seen that happen once, when it was rainy and the Twins were bored. Poor Windcharger with his magnetism … it took the whole day to pry him off the wall.

While she waited for the chamber to power-up, Flare studied her talons. A simple thought and a flexing of cables brought the sharp claws out from their recess in her fingertips. In and out, in and out … my, it was fascinating what she could do. The chamber chimed, snapping her out of her small reverie; the hatch lifted with a low hydraulic whine and Flare sighed. Fishing a step stool out from the cabinet underneath the recharging station, she mounted it and clambered into the bowels. For someone with her design, it was roomy, but Flare could not help but feel a shudder of fear run through her new cables as the hatch slowly lowered. _Not a coffin, not a coffin …_ No, she'd escaped that fate, once. Well, her mind had, in any case.

Through the scratched Plexiglas lid, Flare saw a grey face framed by a blue helm peer down. A slim black hand rested gently on the cover; with a faint smile, Solarflare reached up and mirrored her palm against Mirage's. Thus comforted, she allowed herself to fall into a deep trance, into a deep sleep.

"Outside, I can't protect you, Alina," he whispered, though she could not hear him, "but here, I shall be your guardian."

* * *

_Flashes of days gone by, of memories oft forgotten.  
"Alina! Hurry, we're going to miss the show!"  
The beach … golden sand and sun. Alina laughs, tosses a ball to her cousin; it ends up hitting him in the side of his head. Instead of getting angry, Ryan laughs along with her, complains that he needs glasses – or she needs better aim.  
"Alina! Watch out! It's Ravage!"  
Pain, pain, considerable pain._ Why can't I remember? Who am I? Why am I alive? "_Behold, Solarflare! The newest member of our team!"  
"Tell me, teach me how to love you," she pleads. He laughs low, running his finger over her cheek. "Perhaps," he says so soft and gentle, "you should be the one to teach me."  
The wind, it beckons me … calls to me. The drafts, the thermals, lovely rising winds. Call to me my high-flying lover, dazzle me, drifting in and out. The voice, harsh and high, wild, untamed and unfettered … unchained.  
Trapped! Trapped!  
Kee-keekkkeeee-eee! Keeraaakkkeee!_

* * *

Pieces of the white sniper's rifle clattered to the ground, scattering to all corners of the floor. Mirage stood up so fast, he tangled himself up in the stool; arms whirling, the spy twisted his torso so that his front was facing his back and grabbed onto the hatch of the recharging chamber. "FLARE!" 

Inside the darkness, her fists pounded, her claws scraped and her voice howled. Mirage hauled back and punched the control panel; his fist came away with bits of wire and metal clinging to his armor. The chamber hissed, spat and the hatch obediently popped open.

"Tra-_keeeekeeeekkkk! Keeekkeee-akk-_pped!"

"Flare!" the spy bellowed, reaching in and attempting to grab her by the wrists. "Wake up!"

The grey femme got up – and raked her bondmate full across the face with all five digits. Mirage fell back, the delicate plating of his face neatly cut into fifths, each line oozing sparks and liquid. Optics blinking on and off furiously, the spy watched as Solarflare lifted herself from a prone position, her taloned hands punching ten neat holes in the side of the chamber. And there she effectively perched, crest back, head flicking right and left. Coolant flowed down the side of Mirage's face, down into the crevices of his neck joints. Confused, the spy lifted his hand and wiped the trickle away, never taking his optics from Solarflare.

"What the high-flying slag is going on?"

Mirage's head turned – and so did Flare's. Ratchet stalked into the recharging area, fists clenched into tight balls by his white sides. "Get up!" the medic ordered fiercely, clamping one hand viselike on Mirage's shoulder. Lifted through fury, the spy's legs dangled momentarily before he remembered who he was; breaking free of Ratchet's grasp he landed catlike on the floor before straightening.

"She had a nightmare …" the spy began, hoping to Primus that's what it was.

"I can see that," Ratchet snapped. He stalked over to where Flare perched on the edge of the recharging chamber – and slapped her. Lubricant from her mouth arced in a thin stream to splatter on the wall. Her head snapped back readily enough and she gasped from the pain, sanity returning to her glazed optics.

"You see that, miss?" Ratchet growled, grabbing her by the back of her neck like a dog and forcing her to look at Mirage's deformed facial structure. "Why did you do that?"

"I … didn't!" she whispered, horrified. "Oh, God, what did I do?"

"You just ordered your boyfriend several hours in my medbay to repair that damage."

Mirage wiped away more of the liquid that welled up from his cuts with the back of his hand. "Enough," he stated firmly in his most noble tone. "That's enough, Ratchet. I told you, she had a nightmare. You know she doesn't like the chamber."

The medic rumbled low in his vocalizer and dropped his hold on Solarflare. "You'll do your best not to question my judgment, Mirage. I told her to come in here because she needed it; a few hours hooked up to your bed upstairs wasn't going to do any good. She needed the concentrated Energon only this chamber can provide. _Comprendé?_"

Mirage's upper lip twitched in an act of defiance that would have made the Twins proud. "Understood."

"Good," the medic grunted, hands on hips. "Now, you, missy, get out and go report to Prime."

Head bowed, crest flat, Flare whispered, "Yes, Ratchet." Dragging her large black feet over the top of the chamber, she slunk out of the room, wings drooping with the tips scraping the floor.

Once she was out of sight and aural range, Ratchet turned to Mirage. "Let me see your face." The spy's head turned back from where he had been watching Solarflare skulk away. Setting his jaw, he stuck his neck out; Ratchet fingered the slashes. They were clean and thankfully, shallow. The fluid lines she'd cut were minor; already Mirage's internal repair system, much like a human's, was clogging the leaks. "A few minutes, at the most," the big boxy white mech declared.

Mirage's brow ridge drew down over his sky blue optics. "Really."

Ratchet let go, not even favoring the other mech with a glance. "Let's go, spyboy."

* * *

"_Solarflare to Optimus." _

"_Prime here." _

"_Ratchet said you wished to see me?" _

"_Come to the conference room, Solarflare."_ There was a pause, very distinct. "_How do you feel?"_

Solarflare paused in the hallway; she lifted her hands to her face, claws still extended. Little droplets of blue clung to the razor-sharp edges. Loathing, deep and black, filled her spark. How could she have done that? How could she have allowed her dreams use her to such an awful degree?

"_Solarflare?"_ Prime prompted.

Shaking her head so that her crest rattled, Flare jammed her talons back into their recesses. "_Here, sir. I'm doing all right. I'll be up shortly."_ It was rude, incredibly so, to cut the connection on Optimus Prime, but that's what she did. Wisely, the Autobot commander did not page her for an explanation; she would give him one, maybe, when she saw him. At the moment, she couldn't wrap her cortex around what she'd done. Nightmares were part of a sentient being's brain, whatever passed for one; she'd had her share, she'd seen Mirage have some, too. But she'd never hurt him – or anyone, for that matter – before. _Out, damned spot,_ she quoted wryly, her pyramidal feet quickly carrying her to the elevator.

Then again, Ratchet seemed more pissed than Mirage had been. She'd apologize to her bondmate when this was over, whenever he was done getting his face repaired. She'd apologize to Ratchet … some time soon.

_Battle-nerves,_ she told herself. She had still been wired from her encounter with Starscream, that's all – and the nightmare only made it worse. Nodding to no one in particular, Solarflare stepped up to the elevator and waited for it to arrive at her level. When it chimed, she entered and rode it up to the command area. The wait was enough for her to compose herself and convince her quelling spark that it was as she'd thought: nerves. Indeed, she had once heard of Sideswipe blowing a hole in the repair bay moments after waking up after being stomped on by Menasor.

And Sunstreaker breaking a table in half when he woke up after catching the business end of Blitzwing's fist in his throat. (And missile in his lower torso.)

Okay, so those were the twins. Less explosive behavior had been seen in even little Bumblebee, who staggered around for an hour after a day of surgery. So, really, she wasn't the exception, only part of the collective. Yes, she thought, satisfied – and convinced at last. And it brought a smile to her charcoal lips.

It was with that small smile of hope that she entered the conference room. Heads lifted and turned when she buzzed and was admitted: Wheeljack, Grapple and Hoist stood at the far end with a holo projector, outlining various points on the outskirts of Ark territory. Seated at the head of the table was Prime; ringing the edges were Hound, Trailbreaker, Windcharger, Huffer, Brawn, Prowl, Red Alert, Jazz and Ironhide. Standing in the corner, his large arms crossed in front of his barrel chest, was Grimlock; a lack of mouth did not hinder his ability to display his displeasure at being present.

"Well," the large Dinobot grunted in his stunted speech, "birdgirl finally decide to get up off dead-aft and join. Me, Grimlock, getting tired of waiting."

The metal around her cheeks warmed up in embarrassment. Solarflare inclined her head in respect and edged around the door as it sluiced shut behind her. As fond as she was of Grimlock, she wasn't about to play games with the Dinobot when he was in a foul mood.

"Sit, Solarflare," Optimus said, gesturing to the only empty seat. She skirted behind the large Autobot and plunked herself down next to Windcharger, completely evading Red Alert's piercing glare. The Minibot made a signal to her under the table by her thigh; she flicked her crest in assent and replied in kind. With a smile, Windcharger turned to face the three in the front.

Fit to burst with excitement, Wheeljack launched into a resounding explanation of what they had planned for the new Ark surveillance system. Solarflare leaned forward, trying very hard to listen carefully to the inventor's detailed report; but she soon found her attention wandering. From what snatches she caught, they were going to dig up several miles of pure rock, lay out even thousands more miles of cable and embed hundreds of sensor arrays. Not to mention the hidden cameras, laser trip-wires and energy traps. Tapping on her chin with a sheathed forefinger, Solarflare idly mused, _And all we need is MacGuyver and a toothpick._

"And how do you expect us to pay for all of this, hmm?" Red Alert shoe-horned in when Wheeljack paused for breath. "Call in favors? I'm sure the humans would love us even more!"

Ironhide pushed back his chair. "As much as it pains me," he drawled, "I agree with Red here."

"Favors could work," Hound hazarded. "How many of us have human friends with connections?"

Red snorted. "Right. Tracks with his hooligans, Powerglide with that airhead and Jazz with his potheads."

"Hey!" Jazz exclaimed. "That's low, man."

"It's the truth," the security director shot back. "None of us have _influential_ connections. Even Spike, Sparkplug, Carly and Chip can do little to garner supplies."

Prowl frowned. "What about Dr. Fujiyama, Prime?"

Silent through the whole ordeal, Prime leaned back in his chair. "I doubt the good doctor would allow us access to his technology, especially after the Nightbird ordeal."

"Yes," Prowl argued, "but that was four years ago."

Red made a rude noise and his horns flickered blue. "Fine, don't listen to me."

Optimus made a calming gesture with his right hand. "At ease, Red. I'm not dismissing your complaint. Let's hear more opinions. Solarflare, what do you think?"

Having listened with half her aural tract, Flare's head shot up. Coughing to temporize, she straightened her spinal column, not expecting to have to speak. "I'm in agreement with Hound, Optimus. Though not high, we all have human connections. While they might not be the most savory –" and here she glanced over Windcharger's chest at the white and red mech "—of individuals, they are connections nonetheless. I say give them a chance."

"You only say that because you were human," Red sneered.

"ENOUGH!" Prime pounded the table as chaos threatened to erupt over that comment. "Red, sit down and apologize to Solarflare."

Red Alert mumbled something that could be interpreted as an apology – if someone knew how to translate Polish. The Autobot commander looked to the others. "As I told Prowl the other day, I sent Bumblebee out scouting for supplies. As you well conceived, our requests were not met favorably. However, if we do use these connections of ours, however low," he glanced at Red, "we should be better off. Wheeljack, Grapple, Hoist – your plans are elaborate and well-planned. Yet, we simply cannot afford a ten mile radius of protection."

"Understood," the chorused.

"But Prime," Grapple interjected, "might we scale it down? Based on the supplies our human friends bring to the table?"

"Yes, you may scale it down," Prime replied. "However, let us see what our friends can do." No one, not even Red, missed the slight stress on the word "friends". "Tonight, I want each and every one of you to call the humans you know, no matter what they do for a living, and explain our situation. I need not remind you to do so on a tight connection. The Decepticons found out our surveillance plans once, they can certainly do so again." And so, Optimus rose, laying his hands on the table; in response, they rose as well. "Dismissed." "_Stay a moment, Flare."_

The grey avian femme was about to walk out with Windcharger when Prime called to her on a tight commlink. "I'll see you later, Charger." The Minibot patted her on the arm and waved, leaving with the rest of them.

When all but she and Prime remained, the large Autobot closed the door, effectively cutting them off from the rest of the Ark and giving them privacy. She stood there, hands linked as far as they would go behind her back and waited for Prime to speak.

"Sit, Solarflare." So she sat – rather, perched – on the nearest chair. Optimus lowered his bulk into his own chair and folded his hands before him. "Ratchet conveyed to me not long ago that you had a nightmare in the recharging chamber?"

Well, there went those good feelings. Crest and shoulder struts flat, Solarflare rubbed the back of her neck. "Yes." She paused, then decided it was in her best interest to come clean, because she was sure Ratchet had already divulged everything. "I slashed Mirage's face, too."

Optimus nodded. "I see. Are you alright, though? I noticed that you were a little distracted tonight."

Oh, shit, he'd seen. It was easy to forget that Optimus was a shrewd individual when necessary. Well, come clean again … "I'm sorry. I guess I'm still feeling the effects of having my innards retooled."

"Understandable." There was something rueful in the taller Autobot's tone that put Flare at ease, something that told her he had been there before. That common bond lowered the tension in her crest and shoulder struts. "You are dismissed, Flare; have a good night."

Flare stood and saluted, indeed feeling better. She left Optimus leaning back in his chair; what she did not see was the way he passed his hand over his face, how he slumped and succumbed to the stress of the moment. Walking out into the hall, she checked her chronometer. Eight o'clock; she should head on down to the medbay and see how Mirage's repairs were going. Turning her wrist over, she keyed in a low pulse; if he answered in kind, she'd open up a tight link.

The tiny LED light in her wrist blinked back positive. "_Mirage?" _

"_Yes?" _

"_How're repairs?"_ Yes, she sounded as unsure as she felt.

"_All done, little one. Come upstairs."_

All done? "_Done? Ratchet said it'd take hours …"_

A low, cultured chuckle flowed out from the commlink. "_I know. I thought so, too, but it only took an hour."_

Flare leaned up against the wall, relieved. "_Mirage, I'm sorry …"_

He cut her off efficiently. "_Flare, I know. It's okay. I'm hardly disfigured. Remember that time Thundercracker shot my legs off? This is barely worth it."_

Despite herself, she laughed quietly. "_Yes, I remember. I tore him a new afterburner." _

"_That's right. Now, come up here; I want your stamp of approval."_

So easily, so very easily, he forgave her. The realization stuck painfully in her crop and she worried at it for no apparent reason until she reached their bunk on the soldiers' floor of the Ark. She found the spy sitting on their short couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table, a reader of Cybertronian poetry in one hand, a thin flute of high-grade in the other. She paused in the doorway, just looking him over – all twenty feet of perfection. She admired his clean lines, the Egyptian shape of his helm, the way his grey lips were pursed as he read.

"Like what you see?" he murmured, head still down.

Primus! Her Energon pump did a flip-flop before it started racing. "Yes," she whispered, easing away from the door and hitting the button to seal it. Mirage turned his head slightly so that the light caught the noble angle of his face.

"Care to examine the good doctor's handiwork?" He took a sip of high-grade and smiled.

Flare all but purred; he was good, that spy of hers. She slipped to his side and plopped down on the couch. Mirage tossed the reader to the side and slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close; she rested her head on his chest, listening to the solid thrum of his pump and the subtle whirr of his ventilator system. Like the rest of him, Mirage's system was keyed for silence, and only this close could you actually hear it working.

"How did the meeting go?"

"All right," she replied, reaching up and tracing lines that did not exist on his face. Yes, Ratchet was good; not a smidgen of what she'd done remained. Quickly, she filled him in on the day's events. "Everyone agreed to consult their human friends for supplies."

"Everyone?"

"Well, all but Red. Grimlock didn't say much."

"Mm." Clearly interested, but not, Mirage set the glass down and gathered his grey avian femme closer with both arms. " 'And the lights / Shining deeply from the Heart of Cybertron / Did not match the radiance / Emanating from the pure glass of her optics'," he quoted.

"Gallantus, dawn of the first Golden Age?" she asked. When he nodded in pleasure, she thought of something similar, one from her college days. " 'Come live with me, and be my love; / And we will all the pleasures prove / That hills and valleys, dales and fields/ Woods or steepy mountain yields'," she returned.

He smiled. "Christopher Marlowe, English poet." His head lowered and his lips brushed the topmost feather on her crest.

Again, her talons slipped out, but this time, they were completely gentle. "I love you, Mirage."

The spy reached around and tipped her chin up. "I love you, too, Alina." Disengaging his left hand for a moment, Mirage stretched out to flick the lights off. And this time, the darkness held no horrors ...


	5. Darkness Falls

**Chapter Four**

_Awake, arise, or be forever fallen!  
Paradise Lost. Book i. Line 330._

A polite buzz woke Solarflare. Mirage grunted and lifted his hand from where it curled over the front of her torso and slapped the switch on the nightstand. "Yes?"

"_I'm sorry, Mirage. Did I wake you?"_

"What can we do for you, Carly?"

"_Spike and I heard that Prime wants everyone to go out and get in contact with their human friends to help with security. I was wondering if Flare'd like to go with me?"_

Solarflare lifted her head and rubbed her optics. Well, at least this time, sleep had been peaceful. "I don't have a cockpit," she replied, a little perturbed at being woken up on her off-day. It was her day off, wasn't it?

She should have known better than to object to Carly; it only made the blonde human more determined. "_We have flight gear, I can strap myself to your back. Oh, c'mon Flare, it'll be fun. You and me, girl's day out."_

"Flare would much rather get laid," the grey avian femme muttered under her vocalizer. Mirage bit back a spluttering laugh and sat up, pulling the thick white connection wire from her lower torso. He snapped the other end from his own side and began rolling it up.

"Later," he whispered in her topmost aural tract. "Carly, come in."

"I hate you," Flare mock-snarled, turning over and letting her legs dangle over the edge of the dual recharging bed.

"I'm sure you do," he returned. "But I'll be here when you get back." Slipping around her wings, Mirage flicked the button that opened their suite's door. Carly stood in the center of the doorframe, her bright blonde hair pulled into a neat ponytail. Almost as if she'd known Mirage would have railroaded Solarflare into accepting, the human woman was dressed in a smart grey flight suit, helmet tucked under her arm. She eyed the cable Mirage was putting away and a slight blush flashed across her cheeks.

"I didn't disturb you, did I?"

Time brought awareness and a more pleasing disposition. "Of course not," Flare answered, a genuinely warm smile lighting her white features. "I see you're ready to go. Just let me get a quick shot of Energon and we'll be on our way." Reaching down, she scooped up a rag that had been casually tossed under the bunk and polished the middle spike on her left knee joint. Finished, she tossed it to Mirage who dumped it in the waste receptacle to be burned and the ashes recycled. Getting up, she walked to Carly and offered her hand to the human woman; gratefully accepting, Carly allowed herself to be lifted and placed once more on Solarflare's shoulder. With a wave to Mirage, the two ladies left.

"So, where to?"

Carly shrugged. "I don't know; do you have any contacts?"

Solarflare's charcoal lips pursed thoughtfully. "No, not really. There's the schools I visit with Bluestreak from time to time, but kids don't have what we need."

"We could ask their parents."

Flare paused at the elevator door. "I don't think they'd appreciate a fourteen-foot robot at their door. And most of these kids are from working class backgrounds. The private schools always want Perceptor, or Ratchet. They feel they're more 'educational'."

Carly sat back and there was silence as they rode down to the hanger bay. Flare grabbed her quick shot from the small Energon dispenser set into a niche in the forward bay and jogged out into the open. In front of them, in perfect majesty, was the sun, rising over the horizon and throwing lances of red-purple-gold into the sky. The holiness of the sight was enough to make Carly gasp in awe and Flare to stop dead in her tracks. Unbidden, her wings rose high above her shoulders and fanned out, stretching up and up to catch the first rays of the new day. Rosy hues lit up the grey avian femme's dull plumage, lit her face and brightened her optics for the first time since her accident. From her black lips, there came a high-pitched cry of pure, unadulterated joy.

"Do you believe in God?" Carly whispered in her left aural tract.

"Which god?" the femme replied softly. "Primus? Yahweh? Or the others humans have dreamed up?"

"Any god."

Reaching out, Flare gestured grandly with both arms. "There are things greater than us out there; as to Whom and What They are, we can only scrape at guessing." Her crest twitched, and so did her wings. There was energy in the atmosphere and she wanted to be a part of it. "Okay, Carly, time to hop down for a minute." Deftly and gently, Flare plucked Carly from her shoulder and set her on the ground in order to transform. It would have been very bad, and terribly messy, for her to do so with Carly sitting where she was. Pulling flesh from metal was a messy endeavor – so Flare knew, after seeing a pigeon get caught in Skyfire's intake.

So Carly stepped back and watched as Flare's torso twisted around and her waist compressed. Her arms folded up and rose into place in her struts, which then curved down to snap into place on her sides; at the same time, her head lowered into her chest cavity as the raptor's head came down. Simultaneously, the stylized plate that sat folded up under the avian head, tight against her spine, extended to wrap protectively around her chest. With a distinctive _snick_, Solarflare's tailfeathers came together from where they sat on either side of her thighs.

All of this in less than fifteen seconds.

Staring out at the world from behind avian optics, Flare rustled her metallic wings. There was always that part of her, that hidden, undefined part that came forward when she transformed. Call it primitive, call it nature, she loved it all the same.

"Thought you might need a harness."

Flare and Carly's heads turned around to see Wheeljack strolling from the hanger bay. The inventor stooped by Flare and pulled what seemed to be a simple leather harness from subspace. Actually, it really _was_ a simple harness!

Facial bulbs flashing as he spoke, Wheeljack's brow wrinkled in good humor as he wrapped the harness around Solarflare's neck. "I know you've a daredevil mind, Carly, but I don't think Flare'd know if you fell off until you stopped talking."

Carly had the good grace to blush; even Solarflare's beak creased in an embarrassed grin. "True," the avian femme agreed. "Thank you so much, Jack. I truly didn't even think of it."

"Well, it's my job to create things other folk can't think of themselves," Wheeljack replied, lifting Carly up and using his thick but dexterous fingers to hook her in. "Anyway, where are you two ladies off to?"

Solarflare carefully shrugged. "No where in particular. That's the problem – we don't know where we should go."

Wheeljack tapped a forefinger on his facemask. "Well, let's see; Prowl went out to the state police headquarters, Perceptor headed down to Florida with Skyfire, the Twins are trying to get clearance to the Ford manufacturing plant … uhm, that's about all I know. I've seen the others go out, but I don't know where."

"Why don't we just fly around the state?" Carly suggested. "I'm sure you can spot a potential lab or something."

"It'll take all day, though," Flare argued. "I can't go at top speed with you unprotected on my back."

Carly thumped the avian femme on her neck. "Girl's day out, remember?"

Wheeljack chuckled at Flare's expression. "Oh, go on. It'll be fun," he encouraged.

Flare's beak twitched as she thought about it. Sure, she was up for going places with Carly, but did her newly-repaired system need the stress of a cross-country flight? Of course, the only way to get better was through exercise. There were some parts of her that didn't get a workout last night … She coughed and scrubbed at her optics, using the excuse that some dust had gotten kicked up by the small breeze. "All right," she relented. "Stand back, Jack; Carly, put that helmet on." Obediently, they did as they were instructed. Flare flexed wings that hadn't seen action since three days before; hinges, joints, balls-and-sockets, they all seemed good to go. Just to be safe, she called up a diagnostic to be displayed in the lower right-hand corner of her field of vision. Once it was up, she _thought_ …

There was a low-pitched whine of twin turbines, which quickly rose to an ear-piercing crescendo. Flare dug her talons deep into the rock, holding her wings up as the pressure built in her boosters. **Ignition!** flashed before her optics. And they were off!

There was freedom, such freedom, being airborne; though removed from the sky for only a few days, flight was like a drug for Solarflare. She circled slowly, trying to keep her enthusiasm in check for Carly's sake. It was a little hard, after all these years, to remember what it was like to possess a human body – and a human's limits. So she kept them below cloud level, streaking along at a comfortable pace so that the wind did not snatch Carly's breath away. The ground was a patchwork of steel, wood, brick, grass and water, all different sizes, shapes and colors. Some spots were less savory than others, but for the most part, it was a pleasant journey.

* * *

As the day cycled forward, Solarflare and Carly stopped at a dozen high-tech places, all but three refusing to have anything to do with the Autobots. (Perhaps they should have checked Prowl's logs of which laboratories had been decimated by Decepticon attacks in the past.) Throughout the trip, Carly noticed that Flare seemed distracted, distanced almost. While talking with officials, the blonde human would watch the avian femme out of the corner of her eye; Flare's gaze would fix on something, be it a crack in the wall or the one lone hair left on a bald man's head … and stare. Only when prompted would she respond, usually with monosyllabic answers, then turn her attention to something shiny on the horizon. 

"Flare," Carly said hesitantly when they had been turned away again, "are you okay? You didn't say much."

"No?" There was genuine confusion in the femme's voice. "I thought I did."

Solarflare's distraction rattled at Carly's brain. It wasn't like her – at all – to be this way. "Flare, are you _sure_? I'm worried about you."

An angry rumble bubbled up from the femme's chest at Carly's persistence. "There's nothing to worry about," she replied in a clipped fashion. "I'm fine." Why did everyone think it was all right to coddle her? She wasn't made of glass, for Primus' sake! Not human anymore!

"Flare …"

"Carly, enough," she snapped. "No more. I got hit, I recovered, okay? That's it."

But Carly could not let it go. She turned the events over and over in her mind, knowing in her heart that she'd have to report this behavior sooner or later. For Flare's sake, if not for the Autobots; they couldn't afford a warrior to be distracted on the battlefield.

The moment Solarflare got clearance to land, she dropped Carly off and hopped onto her customary perch on the Ark's boosters. Determined to find answers to her questions, Carly sought out Mirage; after asking around, she found the spy down in the valley behind Mt. St. Hillary on his stomach shooting at paperclips set up on some posts a few hundred yards away. She waited until he was reloading before calling out his name.

"Carly, what's up? Where's Flare?"

Jerking a thumb over her shoulder, she replied, "Up on the boosters."

Mirage's mouth twisted. "She didn't tell me that you returned."

"I think she's upset at me."

The spy rose up and sat on his skidplate in the grass; he looked into the chamber of his rifle before replying. "What happened?"

Carly rubbed the back of her neck; it was a little harder in practice than in theory to bring up the possibility that there might be something wrong with Solarflare. "Well … everything was going fine, until we started talking to people at the labs. Flare didn't say much – she just stared off into space most of the time." She looked up at the spy; Mirage's frown only grew more pronounced. "And … well, she chirped."

"Chirped?"

"At a hawk sitting in a tree." Carly could tell Mirage was getting agitated; whether it was at her or himself, she didn't know. "Mirage …"

The spy waved her off. "I'll speak with her, Carly. Did you get anyone to sign up?"

"A few," she shrugged. "Most of them would have nothing to do with us."

"That seems to be the consensus, from what I've heard." The spy glanced off into the setting sun, up at the first star of the evening. His lips parted but quickly closed; Carly wondered what he had censored himself from saying. "Let's go." He shouldered his rifle and stood, his long legs carrying him quickly across the valley. Carly struggled to match his easy pace, resorting to a light jog in order to keep him in sight. In the end, it didn't matter – Mirage crested the rise and disappeared from view.

_Well, thanks_, she thought wryly, clambering up the rocky face, throwing up dust and getting granules of sands under her manicured nails. Somehow, she got up and started walking towards the boosters when she heard Mirage's voice call out softly: "Alina?"

Alina – Solarflare's human name; the one she'd given up when she had died and been resurrected as a Transformer. Skirting the mountain, Carly set her fingertips into the rock and peered around and up. There was Mirage, balancing on the edge of the nearest orange booster closest to where Carly stood. How he'd gotten up there so fast, and without moving so much as a single shale, she could only imagine.

"Alina, are you all right?"

A low hydraulic whine told Carly that Solarflare had moved; she could not see the avian femme for Mirage was blocking her view.

"Yes. Why?" Again, the genuine puzzlement.

"Carly said that you seemed distracted today."

"She told me. I don't know; I don't think so."

"Perhaps Ratchet should look into it."

There was a long pause. "No. I told her, I'm fine. Please, Mirage, I don't want to talk about it anymore." There was an edge in Flare's voice that Carly hadn't ever heard before; an annoyance at the one person whom she would never lift a finger to harm, ever. Who she would fight tooth, nail and to the last of the Energon in her body to defend. As Carly watched, Mirage shifted so that she could see that Solarflare still remained in avian form, her wings lifted slightly and the pinions curved towards her chest. She didn't know that much about birds of prey, but she'd watched enough of the Discovery channel to realize that Flare was mantling. Mirage's shoulders lifted and dropped back down in defeat. As he turned, he began to fade into nothingness, until all that was left was Solarflare and the massive curve of the Ark's dead boosters. Solarflare shuffled her taloned feet and turned her back on the invisible form of her bondmate.

---

Laserbeak and Buzzsaw could not claim Solarflare's grace; they were loud, raucous and very obvious in their flight. Still, they were very much able to land within a few hundred feet of the Ark's preliminary warning system and focus their augmented vision on what was going on.

"So," a silk-on-wet-stone voice proclaimed lazily, "the little one has spurned her mate." Ravage dangled a steel-tipped paw from the branch he was reclining on, never lifting his wedge-shaped head from where it rested on his forearms. "However, the mate does not seem to be showing the same signs. Perhaps it is too soon, but did Starscream not promise Lord Megatron that the formel would infect the nest?"

Laserbeak cawed quietly, perturbed at being disturbed by Ravage's soliloquy.

"Yes, too soon, however Lord Megatron should be made aware, as always." Ravage lifted his head, iron jaws gaping wide in a yawn. "But what path will you walk on with this virus, Autobot? Convoluting mists surround your existence, but no one else has figured out the truth. Of course, no one asks the Cat."

Buzzsaw turned his head and tilted it questioningly; in reply Laserbeak jabbed at his brother, admonishing him for turning from their mission. Ravage laughed silently. Of all Soundwave's minions, they were the most loyal – not the most stupid; no, that prize went to Frenzy and Rumble. This Cat walked alone and only pretended to be bonded to the great monosyllabic soldier.

"So," Ravage continued, "what shall we see when this virus has run its course? Your true colors? Starscream is not the most astute of individuals, but even I must admit his tenacity is second to none. But, little one, I do wonder why you, of all the Autobots. Prime, assuredly; Prowl, most definitely … so many of your comrades. Is it due to your psychological gender? Or perhaps you have slighted him? Those accursed twins have done far worse damage. Perhaps, perhaps … your gender is a strong contender. Amusing thought, that. Decepticons are taught from sparkhood to disregard such paltry notions. Indeed, all that matters is how well you can follow instructions and do your part. Male-minded, female-minded, it matters not."

"_Will you shut up?"_ Laserbeak demanded from the other tree. "_I can't get a proper fix with you jabbering like that!"_

The great black Jaguar refused to favor the metallic condor a glance. "It is your job to be able to filter out inconsequential noises, Bird. If I am troubling you, perhaps I shall let Lord Megatron know that you cannot perform without total silence."

Laserbeak's head tilted back; his flat gold eyes flashed with inner conflict. Flexing his limited-motion wings, he hopped closer to Buzzsaw. _Too easy,_ Ravage thought, _too easily scared._ But he refrained from out-loud ruminations, instead focusing on the large mountain in the distance. _A month is a long time, little one, but soon we shall see what you are truly made of. Shall you succumb quietly, or will you go in a blaze of glory?_

With proper obeisance, Buzzsaw relayed that they'd completed their survey. "Excellent. We shall return immediately." Ravage rose smoothly, with the barest whine of hydraulics. The bough shifted, shook, but could not release the black Cat. With little effort, Ravage dropped to the ground and began the long sprint back to base, slipping into the falling darkness.

---

"She can't stay out there all night," Red Alert complained, pacing back and forth on the bridge.

"She seems to be content where she is, Red," Prowl murmured, leaning back in his chair.

"Can't you do anything? She's a target just waiting to be blown to bits again."

Jazz chuckled. "Sympathy? Concern?"

Red snorted. "Hardly. Where's Mirage? Call him up and get his bedmate back in here."

"He's tried."

Heads turned slightly to see Hound walking up to them. The tracker shrugged at the queries in their optics. "He went out there twice, but she's only hopped up further."

"She's gone berserk," Red complained. "She's a security risk."

"Do you spark-off to thoughts like that?" Sunstreaker snarled from the doorway. Beyond, as always, hovered Sideswipe, who was wearing an equally annoyed expression. "I swear, you're only happy when you're bashing someone."

"Likewise," the security director snarled.

"Enough." Prowl rose statuesque from his chair. "You two, out. You too, Red." For once, the twins obeyed, but not without making rude gestures, both human and Cybertronian, at Red Alert. Prowl punched the bridge door shut before Sunstreaker could complete his parody of Red sitting alone at night. "So. Suggestions are welcome."

"I don't have any, man," Jazz replied, eying the dirt on his feet. "I just say let her be; she'll come in when she's ready."

"Agreed," the tracker chorused. "If Mirage can't get her back in, who can? Maybe she's just moody. We all get like that after major repairs."

Prowl glanced at the monitor to refrain from saying _I don't get moody_. Whatever their differences might be – he'd calculated a few hundred over the years – Solarflare's against-the-grain behavior was worrying the tactician. As he watched, another camera caught Optimus Prime looming vast into the picture. Jazz reached to turn on the external microphones, but Prowl waved him back. "Not our conversation to hear, Jazz." Behind him, Hound sidled up to watch as well.

Long moments passed before there was any reaction from the lone femme of the Ark. Then, slowly, almost painfully, she transformed, wobbling on the boosters before catching her balance. Prime made a motion with one hand and she hopped down; Jazz switched to the lower camera and that image filled Teletraan's main screen. Flare rubbed her arms and hung her head, clearly ashamed; Prime put one massive hand behind her shoulders and led her inside.

"Well, I'll be," Jazz murmured. Prowl could only agree.

**Author's note: Special thanks to Korat for inspiring this vision of Ravage.**


	6. Rise of the Avian

**Chapter Five**

_And out of good still to find means of evil.  
__Paradise Lost. Book i. Line 165._

Ravage lounged with deadly easy on the floor of Megatron's command chamber, listening with half an aural tract to Laserbeak and Buzzsaw's account of what they'd gathered.

"Well, it seems that Starscream's program did not splutter and blow out as I had assumed it would," the gunmetal grey Decepticon leader mused, running the tips of his black fingers over the stock of his arm-mounted cannon. "Too bad all the Autobots aren't female-based, otherwise I think we might have won a long time ago." These words, if spoken by another, would have been in jest; however, Megatron did not jest, nor did he smile. Indeed, his lip components remained thin, tight and drawn low. "Soundwave, make plans for an assault on the Ark within the next week. Let us see how profitable Starscream's mind can be."

---

"Get up."

Rough hands, thick and powerful, gripped Solarflare's shoulder strut, pinching the malleable metal in such a way to gain her undivided attention. Flare groaned, trying to remember exactly where she was.

"GET UP!"

One hand turned into two and hauled her, wings and all, off the recharging bed. Solarflare bated, legs cycling, wings beating in an effort to break free. She was shaken briskly, harshly, until her head rolled and her optics flew wide: Sunstreaker.

"Sunny!"

"Slaggin' right, sweetheart. Now, let's go."

She was unceremoniously dropped and landed in a sprawl of wings, legs and arms. Beyond, laying on the couch, was Mirage, one leg propped up on the top, the other stuck straight out. He looked – and smelled – positively drunk. "What –" Forceful fingers slipped under her arms and hauled her upright.

"Your baby can't take his high grade," Sunstreaker snarled. "Now, let's get moving."

No matter how hard she tried, Flare couldn't get a word in edgewise; Sunstreaker either cut her off or dug his fingers into whatever part of her plating he could, effectively shutting her up. Resigned, she allowed herself to be hauled under his arm like a large feathered piece of baggage. It didn't help matters that the big yellow warrior was using her wings as the handle. Every time they passed someone in the halls, she shut her optics, trying not to imagine what they might be thinking.

At last, Sunny threw her onto the floor of the training room and lithely slipped under the ropes of the sparring ring. "On your feet, girl."

Flare lay there a moment, trying to comprehend what was going on. But her cortex refused, sluggishly processing thought at the speed of a 1960s' room-sized computer. _Sleep, sleep, warmth._ " … Sunny … why?"

Sunstreaker leaned over the ropes, his classic features twisted in a cruel frown. "Well, number one: it took your fuck-buddy five cans of Sides' and mine special high-grade to finally collapse – and that was after downing three cans of distilled Energon. Two: we had to carry his stinkin' carcass all the way back to your love shack, only to find you curled up nice and sweet. Real nice, Flare."

Solarflare blinked, dumbfounded. None of this sounded remotely possible! She remembered talking to Optimus, a few snatches with Mirage … and then … what?

But Sunny wasn't done. For someone who reveled in being called a troublemaker and a hothead, he was surprisingly astute when he wanted to be. "This has to stop, Flare. He'll destroy himself over you. He's slaggin'-near done it before, and again with that lame-ass stunt with Prowl. You get off on this type of boron?" The ropes shook with the tension in the melee warrior's frame. "Slag! Primus! Flare! Get up here, _now_."

He would have lugged her head over aft if she hadn't gotten up and slipped under the ropes herself. "Sunny …"

He jabbed a practice staff at her upper chest. "Don't 'Sunny' me, bitch. I'm not in the mood. Guard up."

Her reflexes were better than her cortex at the moment. As Sunstreaker came at her with a similar staff, her body worked to repel the savage blows. This was no practice, not like the others – Sunstreaker was working off whatever emotions had bottled up inside his giant frame, and he didn't care if he beat her till her head fell off, he was going to be satisfied.

"Maybe Red was right," he snarled between blows. "Ever since you got your fleshy ass slagged and reformatted, people have been jumping through hoops for you. Mirage would rather not exist than to not have you by his side. And what good are you? You sit on your dainty aft – GUARD UP, FLARE! – all damn day. For what? I SAID UP!"

Flare ducked, and for her troubles, got her legs kicked out from under her. Perhaps it was exercise, but her mind finally got the jumpstart it needed. She redoubled and jumped back up, spinning the staff and striking out with one hand, claws extended. "None of this my fault!" she screamed back, wings rising over her shoulders, where they should have been slicked to her spine. "I don't ask for any favors! All I wanted to be was one of you! And I thought I was – but maybe I was wrong. So you should just go piss off, Sunny." The yellow warrior ducked to the side as Solarflare's talons came out at him again. "If Mirage wants to get plastered, that's his problem. I never ask anything of him that I wouldn't do myself. He's everything to me! I would die for him, too! But no one seems to see that!" _Swack! Swack!_ Twice she belted the melee warrior on the side of the head with her staff, drawing a bead of half-processed Energon from the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, no! Every time something happens, it's always Solarflare's fault. Mirage got drunk, it's Flare's fault! Red's bouncing off the walls because Solarflare botched security! Powerglide got shot because it's Flare's fault! Flare, Flare, Flare! We love Flare but she's a big grey target! _Eeeeeeeeeeeee-haaaakkkkk!_"

"Ahhh!" Sunstreaker fell backwards, stumbling over his own two big feet, hands covering his grey face. Between the fat black fingers, white-pink Energon leaked and trickled down his polished chassis to the padded floor below.

There was a sharp _clang_ as Solarflare's staff hit the ground and rolled off the edge to clatter to the orange tile below. Screaming like a wounded eagle, she leapt onto Sunstreaker, the talons on her feet coming down and binding to the warrior's thighs.

"HOLY PRIMUS!" Tracks bounded over the barrier and tried to wedge his hands under the femme's chest.

"Wings! Wings!" Sunstreaker bellowed from down below, trying in vain to keep Solarflare's titanium talons from scoring any further hits.

Tracks looked up, confused for a moment. What good would grabbing Flare's wings do? But when Sunstreaker was howling at the top of his vocalizer while being striped of every bit of plating he possessed, the urbane Corvette was obligated to honor his request. Maneuvering around her flailing tailfeathers, Tracks reached up and grabbed her by the topmost edge of her wings.

Nothing.

Perturbed, Tracks leaned back, using all of his strength to pull out and down. That did it – joints groaned under undue stress and Solarflare balked. And a florescent, clean-green light bulb went off in Track's elegant cortex. Shifting his body, he worked his hands down the length of Flare's wings until he reached the base; Tracks dug his slim fingers in and jerked with all his might. Solarflare screamed holy hell and immediately let go of poor Sunstreaker.

The problem was, now Tracks was the one holding the rabid avian femme. Fortunately, or not so fortunate, she went limp the moment he increased pressure on her wing joints. And there she hung while Sunstreaker pulled the scraps of his formerly-beautiful self back together.

"That …" he panted, "… is the last time I try to help her."

"Help?" Tracks huffed in disbelief. "When I came in, you were beating the spit out of her!"

Levering himself on one arm – one that was dangling ribbons of bright yellow armor – the melee warrior rolled his optics. "Same thing."

Tracks sighed. There was no debating with common Arena gladiators. He glanced down at Solarflare, then down at Sunstreaker. Ratchet was not going to be happy.

* * *

"Help?" the CMO all but exploded. If he'd been human, Ratchet would have had an aneurysm by now – either that, or one massive vein throbbing high on his chervon'ed forehead. "I don't care what you and that mis-sparked brother of yours think is the proper way to aid a friend in their troubles! If I catch you beating on anyone like that again, I'll rearrange your face and turn you into a Picasso!" 

"At least I'll be worth millions," Sunstreaker mused, lifting his right arm and frowning. Or he tried to frown – Solarflare's flashing talons left him with strips of metal hanging down, obscuring his lips. The cuts she'd inflicted on Mirage were nothing compared to these; delicate wires that allowed Transformers near-biological expression were shredded. Sunstreaker's face was completely slack, emotionless. The only reason he could still talk was that Tracks had been able to keep Flare from clawing out his voice box.

The laser pen in Ratchet's hand wobbled, threatened to snap in half. He glanced over his shoulder at where Solarflare lay, immersed up to her neck in a high-concentrated solution comprised mainly of Energon and, strangely enough, bath salts. Her optics were closed, and the CMO intended on keeping her in a light stasis lock for a few days, for observation purposes. He wasn't quite sold on Tracks' account of how Solarflare merely jumped Sunstreaker out of being pushed to her limits. And he didn't buy the yellow warrior's story of her going berserk, either.

It was just as well First Aid had found Mirage in the showers, throwing up his axels. Having the spy in here, mooning over his bondmate, was just too much to deal with.

"Just sit back and I'll get to fixing your tin-plated ass in a bit," Ratchet growled, turning on his heel and heading over to the tank. Sunny made an attempt at a rude gesture, but the bird just couldn't be performed without the middle digit. Rumbling to himself, he flipped on his side and pulled a dirty magazine out of subspace to occupy his time.

"Well?"

Wheeljack looked up. "Her system's completely fine, Ratch. Everything's in working order."

The medic rested his hands on his hips, not sold on that one. "How long before we get the scanner operational?"

Wheeljack shrugged. "A few days if we hurry. But everyone's out gathering supplies for the new warning system; it could be even longer. And if then, who'll give us what we need?"

Ratchet's boxy white chest vibrated with pent-up frustration. He wanted to hit something – maybe Sunstreaker would give him a good enough reason to. Still, the medic kept his temper, for the moment. He leaned over the rail of the tank, looking down at Solarflare's floating form; cables and wires were attached to various points on her body, some feeding energy, some taking information. Yes, the readouts seemed normal, but they wouldn't know for certain until they had an operational scanner.

"I don't know, Jack," the medic murmured. "We'll work something out. You can always cobble something together."

The inventor looked up, surprise registering in the set of his facial bulbs and the rise of his brow ridge. Was Ratchet crazy? No one ever suggested that he "cobble something together" before!

Below, Solarflare's struts twitched and a whimper burbled from her charcoal lips. Wheeljack reached out and touched the topmost feather on her helm, gently stroking upwards. Flare twitched, her whimper turning into a moan of fear. Ratchet frowned and twisted a dial set into the tank; gradually, the whimpers died and Flare settled back into her stasis/sleep.

Ratchet's frown deepened. "We need that scanner … _now._"

* * *

Dreams were funny in the way that you could be anyone, anything, and wholeheartedly believe it. Floating in that viscous solution, Flare's beleaguered and infected mind began to wander. 

_Before her stretched an endless forest, thick and wet. A cooling breeze wafted pleasantly over her black nares, and she drank deep of its vitalizing scent. It ruffled her feathers, fluffed them up around her neck, playing with the ones on her breast. Her taloned feet shifted to gain better purchase on the branch she was currently occupying; the wood felt surprisingly smooth, and when she moved, her talons scored thin lines, bringing up the cloying aroma of sap. _

_Movement below caught her sharp, rounded eye. Pipping quietly to herself, she watched, watched. Scent flowed up on invisible strings, blew across her nares. Familiarity tugged at her war-torn mind. The creature was wet – canine? Gold-ringed eyes shifted, focused. _

_A shadow, nothing more. She chattered to herself, chastising. No prey, not yet. _

_And now she was flying, the breezes playing so pure along her sleek grey-feathered form. Her heart beat in time with the motions of her wings; a heart, a heart! A true heart, not something artificial. _

_She paused, uncertain. Of course she always had that warm thing beating in her breast. Why ever not? _

_Below stretched a valley, its gracious curves torn and black. Beyond, a mountain stabbed towards the sky, oozing lava from its serrated tip. Across the lip, a shadow flickered; the scent of wet animal again in her nostrils. She wheeled, spun on her inner pinion. Danger! The mountain shook, rumbled; lava trickled in earnest down the besieged denizen of the land._

WAKE!

---

Hound leaned on his shovel and wiped his green brow with the back of his hand. An unnecessary gesture, but he'd spent so much time around humans that their habits had become an integral part of his daily life. All around, his fellow Autobots were digging, laying cables or doing technical work that was far beyond his simple capabilities. Once again proving that there was no task too small, Optimus Prime himself was down in one of the trenches, using his great bulk to shift a great load of rock at the same time. As Mirage trudged by, a fat cable draped over each of his shoulders, the tracker was struck with a small pain in his Energon pump. After a week, Solarflare still lay in her tank, wakened periodically to energize and expel processed fuel. Sometimes she was lucid, other times she made small screeches and calls under her vocalizer. Strangely enough, Mirage was not by her side; instead, he worked as hard as a drone out here in the desert. Hound sighed; to each his own. Perhaps he'd been threatened by Ratchet. That alone would keep any sane mech out of the CMO's demesne.

"Digging or sightseeing, Hound?" Brawn called out, rapping him smartly on the elbow with the butt-end of his pick. "C'mon, I ain't got all day. Shift gears and move this slag."

Hound's lips moved slightly downward but he set his shovel back in all the same. When it came down to back-breaking labor, Brawn often forgot himself in his self-important role as the Ark's strongest mech. The burly brown-grey Minibot grunted and tossed his pick to the side. "Let me show you how a real mech works!" he boasted, bending down to jab his fingers under a bolder that was larger and wider around than he was.

Hound refrained from smirking and leaned on the handle of his shovel, watching Brawn. The cords on the Minibot's neck bulged out, much like a human's veins when straining. Around the area, the others stopped what they were doing, some leaning on the handles of their shovels, picks or poles, some leaning on each other.

"Fifty credits says that he drops it on his head," Smokescreen murmured to Trailbreaker.

"Seventy-five in the first minute," Sunstreaker countered.

"One-hundred says he goes rolling down the ditch."

"Twenty for each time Grapple busts a tire trying to pull him out."

"Ten for each vein Ratchet pops while working on his sorry-slag of a skidplate."

"All right, that's enough," Prime finally said. "Brawn, put that down and break it up."

Not one to be dissuaded, the Minibot grunted and the rock shook. "One second, Prime; that's all it'll take!"

Famous last words, those. The second Brawn got the boulder a half an inch off the ground, it exploded into a hundred thousand fragments, each shard a deadly missile. The Minibot went down, sparks shooting up in a waterfall of colors from the twenty or more pieces that stuck out all over his body like a hybrid porcupine. Hound cried out, so did Huffer, Gears, Jazz, Skyfire, Silverbolt and Hot Spot; the Autobots keeled over, liquid Energon pooling around their severed bodies and running down into the gorge they had only moments before emerged from.

"AMBUSH!" Powerglide bellowed, transforming instantly and roaring up into the sky.

* * *

"I told you! I told you!" Red Alert howled at the top of his vocalizer. "When will you idiots pay attention to anything I say? I specifically stated that a large contingent outside would—" 

Ironhide batted the security director upside the head before taking position at Teletraan's auxiliary screen. "Awr, shut your blinkin' trap, will ya?" he shouted back, flipping switches and powering up the outside canons.

"When you actually preface your tirades with something other than insults," Perceptor returned urbanely, punching codes with severe accuracy. "Main guns online, Ironhide."

Mouth pulled taunt, the rust-red veteran leaned into the controls. "Fire at will."

* * *

When the first round of laser fire hit the Ark's mountain, Ratchet was thrown off-balance. The second wave tossed the CMO into Solarflare's tank. Cables hissed and spluttered as they were forcefully pulled from the system. When Ratchet was at last able to pull his head from the morass, he found himself face to face with a stranger wearing Solarflare's body. 

Wild, unchecked optics flashed from side to side; a high-pitched scream, harsh and grating on the neuros, burst from her lips, setting Ratchet's teeth on edge. Before he could grab her, or say one word, she was out of the tank, solution streaming in rivers from her frame. Off and running, those pyramidal black feet surprisingly swift.

"SLAG!"

It wasn't easy, or tasty, but Ratchet managed to haul his boxy white self out of the tank and stumble over to the console. Artillery fire from the Ark boomed all around, shaking the very foundations.

"PROWL!"

The second-in-command's calm grey features lit up the screen; his optics remained in tight focus on whatever it was he was aiming at. "_Ratchet?"_

"Prowl, she's gone!"

The cruiser turned his head slightly to the left and barked out a sharp order: "_Red, scan the halls. Solarflare is on the loose." _

"_What do I care about her? She's insane!"_

Ratchet dearly wished he could have seen the blow Ironhide dealt the paranoid mech. It sounded quite lovely. "I'm going to canvas," he told Prowl. "Call me if you see anything."

"_Affirmative. I'm setting up laser wires as we speak."_

Ratchet paused long enough to pocket his pistol before exiting the medbay. It was easy enough to track her – puddles, then thin streams, of Energon solution coated the orange tiles of the hallways. In places, there was evidence that she'd slipped and gone crashing into the wall – long, jagged lines scored the surface as she literally clawed her way back up.

Quietly, his comm beeped. "Ratchet here."

"_She's down the elevator shaft,"_ Prowl reported. There was a distinct pause. "_I should say – up."_

Ratchet blinked. For the love of all that was near and dear to Primus! When he got a hold of that bird-brained she-bot …! Half following the wet trail, the medic plowed down the hall and skidded to a halt by the elevator. Perhaps it was time to revise his plans: the doors had been wrenched open, the mark of talons clearly identifying the culprit. He jogged into the hold, glass crunching under his large white feet. A pool of Energon lay at the window bay, scraps of grey paint clinging to the intact edges. Braving whatever it was that she'd become, Ratchet stuck his head out and looked upwards.

"SOLARFLARE!"

She paused but for a second, her feral gold optics locking onto his before she set her claws into the rock with renewed fervor, scrambling with such dexterity Ratchet wondered if they had inadvertently put essence of squirrel into her programming.

"Prowl!"

"_I see her,"_ he replied with that insufferable patience and calm. "_She's hopped over the lip and is headed towards the field."_

Ratchet groaned. "Primus …"


	7. Only the Beginning

**Chapter Six**

_Awake, arise, or be forever fallen!  
Paradise Lost. Book i. Line 330._

In a considerably rare move, Megatron hung back from the field with Soundwave, casually observing the battle. With cold, narrowed optics, he watched the movements, the reactions, of the Autobots as they engaged his troops. And what he witnessed did not improve his icy disposition one iota.

Though taken by complete surprise, the Autobots did not fall and scatter as Starscream promised they would have. There was no difference in they way they returned fire, the way they ducked, ran, scrambled, for better position and coverage. Megatron could not perceive any change at all!

"Soundwave."

There was no need for clarification. "Scanners indicate Autobots at optimal capacity," the boxy blue mech intoned. "Except …"

Megatron turned his head very slowly. Soundwave never hesitated. "What is it?" His words hung chill in the warmth of the atmosphere.

"Except … for the female."

Megatron followed the straight point of Soundwave's finger, followed it through the criss-cross of laser-fire and bullets. There, a glaring splotch of storm cover over the cloudless blue sky was the Autobot femme, Solarflare. At least here, the virus created by Starscream worked as he had said it would. Though not one to observe wildlife unless it was scraping it off his heel, Megatron could not say for certain that the movements she made were those of a feral thing, one of a pure, avian-minded creature. What he did note was the inconsistencies in her flight pattern, one figured out over long battles and skirmishes. She darted, spun, twisted and dove as one with an addled cortex, a drone. She flew neither offensively, nor defensively, merely trying to get herself out of the madness upon which she had thrust herself.

The curve of Megatron's lip only deepened. "Call them back, Soundwave. This has been a futile, expensive demonstration of Starscream's utter stupidity. I should have known the incomprehensible fool would have followed his own path."

The stolid blue sentinel nodded once, barely. He reached around the box of his chest to depend a button upraised on the opposite shoulder. "_Decepticons: retreat."_

This time, it was planned. Still, Starscream did not back off; he pulled his nose high in the air, dancing against the attentive laser fire of Powerglide and a wounded Skyfire, who streaked Energon and gasses throughout the heavens.

"_Megatron …,"_ came the hesitant voice of Rumble.

"_Leave him to his destruction,"_ their leader replied, already igniting the boosters in his heels. "_If the Autobots unplug his laser core, it is a better fate than the one he has waiting for him."_

And they scattered, all but Starscream, who, though sporting a wide range of bullet holes in his armor, still plunged after the metallic bird. Solarflare, witless and utterly devoid of cognizant thought, screamed and pitched to the side, beating her wings though it did her no good. Down and down she dove, the only notion in her head being that of safety. Down still she flew, talons out, and locked them with metal-puncturing power onto the right arm of Grimlock. The Dinobot leader was thrown off-balance by the sudden lighting; his trigger finger clenched and the muzzle of his gun blossomed with deadly fire, hitting Starscream square in the nose. With a shriek worthy of Solarflare's vocalizer, the Decepticon jet spun nosecone over aft, trailing smoke as he went.

He would have rolled straight into the nearest mountain had Skywarp not teleported a few feet above and latched two strong cables onto the Air Commander's plating. And in the next instant, they were both gone, the only remnants of their passing being smoke and the slight odor of ozone.

Grimlock sat up and ruefully considered his torn arm. "Me, Grimlock, would prefer pretty canary, but no, me, Grimlock get crazy cuckoobird." Flare flopped frantically to the side, but she could no longer recall how to activate her boosters. While the others gathered around, clutching themselves and each other, the Dinobot grabbed Solarflare by the legs and held her upside down so that her head lolled by his lower torso. "Me see this on Discovery Channel." He paused, considering. "'cept, they pull feathers and eat carcass."

"GET HER INSIDE – NOW!" blared for all to hear over the Tyrannosaur's comm. Grimlock snorted and stood up, Flare still hanging upside down. "Yeah, yeah, Ratch-bot heard." And he lumbered with intentionally-slow steps towards the belly of the Ark.

* * *

Ratchet sighed. The signs were not good. He barely had to glance at Wheeljack to confirm what his own internal medical equipment told him.

"Should we let him in?" the inventor asked, tilting his head towards the bay doors. The sounds of the struggle were still audible, even through the thick plating. Ratchet knew that come morning, he'd be out there with a large hammer and laser gun, repairing the damage that Mirage was wrecking on the doors.

"Absolutely not!" Perceptor slammed his fist down on the nearest tray, causing its contents to fly in every direction. "He's unstable. I will not have him in this facility until he has calmed down."

Ratchet pursed his lips; clearly the scientist was remembering all those years ago when they had first worked on Solarflare's human body, how Mirage, in a fit of emotional distress, had lifted Perceptor five feet off the floor – by his neck. "Fine," the CMO decreed. "We'll let him in later."

"Thank you." Perceptor inclined his head curtly before turning and picking up the tools he'd scattered.

"LET ME IN!"

Wheeljack's sidelights blinked in confusion as he glanced at Ratchet. "What in the Matrix …?"

"HIT THE DECK!"

**BOOM!**

Two feet of prime Cybertronian steel caved in, the blown-away tip of a silver rocket protruding from the middle like a deformed worm. A second later, the rocket clattered to the floor, shoved through the steel by a sleek black fist, which immediately began ripping through the plating like paper.

"For the love of Primus!" Ratchet howled. "Let him in! I won't have my bay turned into a WWE arena!" Poor Perceptor, all ready harried, slipped on the floor, his feet rolling out from under him on a screwdriver. He went down, taking Wheeljack with him; Ratchet jumped to the side as the inventor slammed face-plate-first into the orange tile. On the examination table, Solarflare's readings spiked, her body arching upwards as she fought the induced stasis-lock.

"OPEN THOSE SLAGGIN DOORS!" Ratchet roared, throwing himself out of harm's way as a second rocket hit.

With a painful whine, the bay doors were wrenched open and Mirage stalked in, face blackened by smoke, blue and white paint scratched and dented by several well-meaning hands. Behind him were Hound, Trailbreaker and Brawn. A foot twitched just out of sight, hidden by the wall; Ratchet caught only a glimpse, but he swore that was Skyfire's. He'd forgotten how deadly Mirage could be – especially when Solarflare was in danger. There was a crazed indifference to the spy's facial features, one that melted almost immediately as he made contact with his bondmate's arm.

Ratchet stood to the side, observing this strange occurrence. Under the table, Perceptor and Wheeljack were just levering themselves to their feet. "Why you …" Perceptor began, his hands outstretched.

"Stand down," Ratchet ordered, baring the scientist's way with a thick, boxy arm.

"You have got to be joking!" Perceptor was appalled.

Ratchet drew his arm around the beleaguered mech and drew him to the back of the bay, motioning Wheeljack to join them. "What's up?" the inventor quipped, rubbing the back of his helm and grimacing as his fingers came away spotted with paint chips.

Looping his free arm around Wheeljack's shoulder, Ratchet turned them both to face the scene at the examination table. "Look, what do you see?"

"A mech who should have his cortex defragged," Perceptor snarled with uncharacteristic anger.

"No. _Look_ at him."

Wheeljack peered hard but turned to Ratchet, shrugging. "You'll have to tell us, Ratch, because I don't see a darned thing."

With a long-suffering sigh, Ratchet let go of the two, folding his arms over his boxy chest. "We witnessed a scene similar to this not too long ago – but with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe."

Instant understanding lit Perceptor's narrowed optics. "You are inferring that Mirage and Solarflare share a bond similar to that of the twins. That is preposterous. They share no programming; they are completely unrelated in terms of circuitry."

Wheeljack tapped his faceplate contemplatively, watching as Mirage got down on his knees, pressing his cheek against Solarflare's cold black hands. "Not totally incorrect, Perceptor." The scientist turned a rather disgusted look upon the inventor, who merely shrugged. Wheeljack continued, "We never would have thought to account for any stray energy that might have leaked from her artificial spark. Mirage did spend a lot of time next to the cradle; he might have become infected that way."

Slowly, the anger faded from Perceptor's face as he pieced the puzzle together. "Well, it is not completely illogical. Transformer sparks and human souls are not wholly different, but changing one into another could possibly have adverse effects on someone exposed to them for long periods of time." Arms folded, he studied Mirage for a good few moments. "Yes, yes, it _could_ create a bond like that of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe."

Wheeljack rubbed his chin more thoughtfully. "But why only Mirage? Why doesn't Flare exhibit these symptoms?"

Ratchet had the answer: "Because she's the originator. She's the cause of the infection, if you will. Of course she wouldn't feel any different." In Ratchet's mind, Solarflare and Mirage's love only made the bond stronger, but he had a feeling that if nothing had come between them, Mirage would still exhibit symptoms.

Wheeljack chuckled quietly; Ratchet shot him a look. "You weren't here when Flare shot Thundercracker and Thrust new exhaust ports," the Lancia recounted. Ratchet tilted his head to the side, clearly not recalling having been told this particular tale. Wheeljack was only happy to oblige, giving Mirage more time alone with Solarflare before they would have to toss him into stasis just to remove him from the bay. "You were in Portland, working with some of the human doctors at a conference." Ratchet nodded, urging him on. "Well, Megs decided to make a move down in Monte Carlo, where Flare and Mirage just happened to be, watching the Formula-1 races. Suffice to say, when Megs sent Thundercracker and Thrust in to grab some super doohickey engine that the humans were testing out, they blasted Mirage a good one. From what I hear, Flare when psycho – that's a human term," he said, looking to Perceptor.

"I know what that is," he sniffed.

Wheeljack was not fazed. "So, yeah, I think it swings both ways. More in Mirage's 'favor', if you will, but definitely not limited to him."

Perceptor shrugged. "Well, I for one, am glad that Solarflare isn't a target every other day. This is getting on my neuros."

Ratchet managed a smirk. "It only gets better."

"Wonderful." Perceptor sighed. "Well, can we get on with it? As much as the scene is touching, mind," he added when Mirage suddenly looked up.

"I'm staying here," the spy announced, looking around and finding a rather well worm stool propped up in the corner.

"No, you're not," Ratchet stated unequivocally, walking forward and clamping a firm hand on the spy's shoulder, being careful to stay to the side of his rocket launcher. "You're going to wait outside like a good little husband and wait for us to call you."

Mirage's blue helm drew down over his optic ridges. "What –"

"We don't know what's wrong yet," Ratchet interrupted, turning him from the table and walking him towards where Skyfire and the rest waited, the giant jet standing with one leg angled improperly, blackened from the knee down. "She could have a time-release virus in her that could affect everyone within range. If so," he said quickly, watching Mirage's optics grow larger and larger, his fists clenching tighter with every step, "we want to have it contained properly." Passing the spy to Skyfire, he called after them: "We'll ring you when we know more!"

The look the spy shot the CMO was a mixture of disgust and pain – at being duped into leaving quietly and the agony of not knowing what had happened to Flare.

Once the group was out of range, Ratchet slammed the auxiliary bay doors down. With hands on hips, he surveyed the damage Mirage had caused: oh, Primus, it would take a few days of good, hard labor to clean this up. And nothing could be started without first making sure Flare was okay.

"Call First Aid," Ratchet said without turning around. "We're going to need all the help we can get."

---

Starscream staggered backwards, clutching the gaping hole where his left arm used to hang. Before him Megatron stood, casually flicking the thin Energon blade back and forth. The Air Commander bit back a groan of pain; Energon trickled out between his clenched fingers, pooled around his feet.

"You lied to me, Starscream," came that cold, deadly voice. Around the Decepticon warlord ringed the jet's comrades, their faces made of steel. Every single one of them were supremely glad not to be in his position. "You promised that the femme would be the vessel, instead she turned out to be the lone subject of your vengeance."

Optics wide, Starscream's mouth moved up and down, but his vocalizer refused to obey. Megatron stepped carelessly on his fallen arm, grinding the heel of his right foot into the black palm, crushing it to slag. "Let this be a lesson, Starscream, that no one shall elevate their petty concerns above my own."

And the blade flashed down.

---

First Aid sat perched above the examination table, keeping tabs on the monitor set into the head. Behind him, Ratchet, Wheeljack and Perceptor worked frantically on repairing the scanner with parts donated by the Autobots from the security system. Prime stood quietly, a red-white-and-blue statue, his hands clasped behind his back, face impassive as he stared at Solarflare's slack features.

"How could we have known?" he remarked softly, reaching around and touching the femme's limp black hand.

"We couldn't," Aid offered up just as low.

Prime lowered his hand and looked around for a stool to sit on; he grabbed one in the corner and lowered his considerable bulk upon it. "What is it, then?"

"A virus," the junior medic answered. "That much is certain. Cursory scans indicate it was time-released, but where and what it is exactly, we won't know until a deep-scan is performed." He paused. "I think she tried to fight it, but not knowing what it was, we all assumed she was battle-addled."

"And the time in the tank only allowed it to do its work unhindered," Perceptor noted, soldering wires. Next to him, Ratchet's shoulders hunched in blame.

"So, there is hope of undoing this damage?" Prime rubbed the back of his neck.

"Any virus can be destroyed," Wheeljack returned, "it's just a matter of how much of the original program can be … saved."

There was silence in the medbay, with the only sounds being the hiss and click of tools. An hour passed, then two; after thirty minutes into the third hour, the scanner was functional. Wheeljack and Perceptor hooked it up to the mobile arm in the ceiling and Ratchet guided it over to Solarflare's prone body. First Aid stepped back, adjusting the machine so that it covered her from head to toe.

Behind the junior medic, a picture appeared on the screen: of green, pink, blue, white and red lines. The white outlined Flare's body, the green, blue and pink were her "skeletal" system as well as fuel and coolant lines.

"Point of entry," Wheeljack murmured, gesturing to a bright red splotch that stretched along the back of the femme's spine.

"Exactly where I pulled those missile shards from her encounter with Starscream," Ratchet mused, the weight of his guilt easing but a little in the face of medicine. "The warhead must've been the virus. Look, it traveled straight up her spinal column and into her cortex."

"But not her spark," Prime noted.

Ratchet folded his arms, glancing back and forth from the screen to the body on the table. "No," he said at last, "it doesn't seem to have effected her in that manner, Primus be praised."

"Then I'm assuming you can create an antivirus."

"That's gonna be my priority," Wheeljack pronounced. "Aid, hook that line into Flare's frontal plate." The junior medic picked up a thin white chord and pressed a spot on Solarflare's helm; the seamless button rose up and he flicked it to reveal a port. Feeding the line through, First Aid nodded. "Line's in."

"I'm gonna run the virus' attributes through Teletraan, so it'll take a while," Wheeljack told Prime, watching as a herd of Cybertronian text flew by.

"Very well," the commander said, rising from his seat. "Good luck." And then he was gone.

All four looked at each other. First Aid spoke the words on all their cortexes: "We're going to need it."

Perceptor huffed. "Really. How intricate of a program can Starscream create?"

"A very good one," Wheeljack replied. "It fooled all of us."

Perceptor frowned. "I shall concede to that fact, but we are far superior in intellect compared to that cretin."

"History has long been testament to those with less technology beating those with more," First Aid pointed out.

"You've been reading Earth books again, haven't you?" the scientist said over his shoulder, leaning over the console and taking notes on what was flying by on the screen.

A small smile touched the junior's optics. "Listening to Hound, mostly."

Ratchet sighed. "Aid's right. We have to look in both directions – low and high – in order to combat it. The simplest method could be the key."

"Won't know for a while," Wheeljack repeated.

"Aid, keep her under. I don't want her running around and breaking things again," Ratchet ordered. He grabbed the stool Prime had vacated and sat down by Wheeljack and Perceptor. "We wait."


	8. Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here

**Chapter Seven**

_The strongest and the fiercest spirit  
That fought in heaven, now fiercer by despair.  
Paradise Lost. Book ii. Line 44._

Mirage leaned back against the rough bark of the tree, his cleaning tools scattered around him, pieces of his sniper's rifle lying in his lap. He always cleaned his rifle when he was stressed-out; it calmed him, forced him to focus his energies. It kept him from tearing Starscream a new aft. Come to think of it, he hadn't been able to do that during the short skirmish. Hound lounged nearby, hands behind his head, talking to himself about the stars and the moon and the sun … foolish nonsense.

The spy heard, but did not react to, the polite cough that sounded over his left shoulder. He kept his optics focused on the task he has set for himself: making sure the rifle's chamber was cleaner than a newly-processed spark. His lips pursed as he studied the interior; an adjustment might have to be made later on. He'd heard too much of an explosion when it was fired today. Not good, not for one in his line of work.

"Mirage?"

Concentration broken, the spy set aside his tools and slowly turned to look over his shoulder. Hovering nervously by the side of the tree was First Aid. "What?"

"Promise not to slag me?"

Hound broke off from his self-lecture and looked up, brow ridge draw. "What gave you that idea?" the tracker replied in disbelief.

First Aid ducked his head. "They sent me out here because 'you're the one least likely to get slagged'."

Mirage leaned back on one hand, fingering the pieces of his rifle with the other. He turned his head and Hound and the spy locked optics for a moment; Hound merely shrugged. "Hrmph," he snorted. "What's up?"

First Aid inched around the tree; he respected the spy for his courage and talents, as well as feared him for those same talents. "Well, you'll be pleased to know that we've identified the virus." When neither Mirage nor Hound said anything, the medic continued, "It's not something any of us have dealt with, only because of its nature. Starscream programmed it specifically to target the latent animal instincts in Solarflare's cortex. Over time, it is supposed to completely wipe all cognizant thought from her brain, leaving the eagle behind."

Mirage leaned forward. "Have you destroyed it then?"

"We've … tried. Starscream was pretty intricate in his design. We found we couldn't go straight through her cortex – we had to start at the base and maneuver through her spine. Once we reached the neuros to her cortex, we got stuck." Mirage's brow ridge lowered, his frown deepening. "The center of the virus is a tiny node, less than a millimeter in diameter. Very, very small. From scans, we've determined that it's hooked into her cortex by a series of small lines; however, the antivirus doesn't work on the tentacles. Ratchet and Perceptor have each tried introducing the antivirus, but they can't get a clear shot."

Hound sat up. "What do you mean?"

First Aid shuffled. "I mean, it moves. The center of the virus is constantly moving. I don't know how else to explain it."

Mirage leaned forward, draping his arms over his knees. "So, if you shoot the antivirus into the center, it's gone?"

"Simulation has shown such."

The spy glanced at the pile of pieces in his lap. "I guess I'll have to," he said, somewhat resigned.

First Aid's optics widened. "Well … that's why I was coming out to tell you. They wanted me to ask if you'd submit to an experiment."

Mirage frowned again. "What?"

"When they found out that they couldn't attack from outside, Perceptor proposed a move like the one he, Bumblebee and Brawn attempted with Megatron and the Heart of Cybertron."

"They want to _shrink_ me?"

"Not exactly. More like download the antivirus into your body and then upload your conscious into Flare."

"Primus!" Hound exclaimed, leaning back against his own tree. "Well, Raj, there you have it, you and Flare will be one."

The spy grimaced slightly. "Not what I had in mind for a romantic encounter." He stood up, pocketing the pieces of his rifle into subspace. "Well, Aid, let's see what the mad scientists have in store for me."

First Aid eyed the tall, lean mech before turning on his heel and walking back up the slope to the Ark. Hound followed by the spy's side, intent on seeing how this would be played out.

"_Is he calm?"_ came Perceptor's voice from the other side of the closed bay. Mirage rolled his optics, looking up and down at the damage he'd inflicted not long ago. "Yes," he replied, perturbed.

The auxiliary doors slid open and the three trooped in. First Aid led them to the back where they'd relocated operations. Solarflare was laid stretched out on a table, several cords and wires attached to various points on her sleek grey frame. An identical table was rolled up beside her. Perceptor stood behind the first table, a slim data card in his hand. "I take it First Aid briefed you on our dilemma?"

Mirage paced around to the other side, causing the scientist to skitter around to the head, out of reach. Laying his hand on Flare's cheek, he looked up at Perceptor. "Yes. You want to download the program into me and then put me into Flare."

Perceptor nodded and coughed, trying to regain his professional mien. "Quaint, but yes, that's what we intend to do. However, I need to show you how to use it. If you'll follow me …"

Hound watched the two walk off into a secluded corner of the bay before leaning his elbows on the table nearest him. "So, how's it going?"

"Going," Ratchet replied succinctly, busy staring at the screen. Wheeljack took pity on the tracker and pointed out what they were doing.

"See, we didn't count on this happening," he admitted. "Starscream might have been a scientist, but he sure as heck wasn't a good one, from what Skyfire says. He could make bombs and such, but viruses? Took too much of his time. But, I guess we underestimated his tenacity." He pulled a datapad from his thigh. "See?" He powered up the program and showed Hound a holo of Solarflare's system. "Here's the point of entry, and here's how we've figured out how to kill it." As Hound watched, the holo zoomed through Flare's torso and then shot up her spine, passing through the hollow chamber filled with wires and cables. "Here, here's the problem." Wheeljack tapped the pad's screen and the image above the pad changed to that of a Decepticon logo, with thin filaments wrapped around various nodes in Flare's cortex. A glowing orb floated around the confines of the logo, never staying in one place, nor having a discernable pattern to its motion. "None of us has the steady hand to hit it. And all the beams we've tried are just too large."

"So this is what Mirage'll have to deal with?"

"I dunno," the inventor replied, shrugging. "It might be different for him, being actual data in her body …" He trailed off and shrugged to fill in the silence.

"Is there no other way?" Hound asked, trailing his fingers along the table edge.

"Like what?" Ratchet barked, his chevron riding low on his brow. First Aid reached out to touch his mentor's arm, but the CMO flicked it away. "We've gone over every thing possible, Hound. This is IT."

"Easy, easy, Ratch," Wheeljack soothed. The medic huffed and turned away, staring up at the screen and watched a simulation play out again.

Hound blinked. "Is it me, or is he taking this hard?"

"Hard," the inventor agreed, bobbing his head.

Not shortly thereafter, Mirage and Perceptor returned from their talk. The spy's face was grim-set and he kept clenching the fingers on his right hand, miming what he was to do. He was the best there was, he reminded himself; no better shot, nor more accurate riflemech lived on Cybertron. All those long hours of turbo-fox hunting on the Plains, all those credits put into building his rifle … Still, it was hard to deal with the fact that he would, essentially, be shooting a gun off in his bondmate's head.

"Let's get on with it."

"Up on the table, if you please," Perceptor said, indicating the second orange slab. Lithely, the spy hopped on and stretched himself out. "I'll insert the card and give you a moment to assimilate it. Remember what I told you: the antivirus will be a part of you – _you_ will be the antidote. If you need to imagine a gun, do so."

Mirage looked up and back, caught Hound's optic. The tracker gave a friendly salute and stepped back to allow Perceptor room. The spy felt the scientist peel back the cover on his helm, felt the card slide into its slot. A rush of information filled him, and his body gave an involuntary jerk. Suddenly, it was clear. Reaching out, he found Solarflare's cold black hand and ran his fingers over her palm.

"How do you feel?"

Mirage turned his head slightly. "Clean," he whispered up at Perceptor. The scientist pursed his lips.

"Interesting description," he murmured, half to himself. "All right. Cable, First Aid, if you please." Mirage flicked his optics to the side and watched as the junior medic fitted a thin black cable into a port in Solarflare's head; beyond, Wheeljack and Ratchet monitored the situation on the wide screen. Perceptor took the other end of the cable himself. He bent low to Mirage's audios. "Good luck," the scientist murmured. "Bring both of you back … safe."

And that was all he knew.

* * *

Time, sound, light, consciousness … it all coalesced into one long, thin tunnel. Mirage felt himself being pulled through, no weight tangible in his mind. He was light, airy … pure thought and data. There was no time at all to consider how dizzy this was making him; the tunnel opened up and unceremoniously dropped him before the entrance to a blood red thoroughfare. 

_Where am I? _

It took a moment, a little longer than he was comfortable with, before he was able to gather his scattered thoughts into recognizable cognizance. The essence that was Mirage remembered then what he was supposed to do and who he was. Looking about, he noticed that he had no discernable body; Perceptor's words came back clearly: _You must think and it will be done. I cannot elaborate any further, because it is truly hypothesis. _

**Think.**

The spy paused, gathering all his memories about what his body looked like, felt like, moved like. A bright shimmer lit the hall and resolved itself into Mirage's form. He looked down and smiled, pleased that he had been able to perform the task so easily. However, something was missing. Looking down at his right hand, Mirage shuttered his "optics" and willed into being a perfect replica of his hunting rifle. This he "stored" in its customary subspaced niche along his back and turned his gaze forward, towards the long arching tunnel. _I'm coming, Alina._

Though he assumed he could move just as quickly by "thinking" his way along her spinal column, it was more from habit and comfort that Mirage transformed. And so a bright white and blue Ligier Formula-1 racecar sped down the terrorized neurological system of a female Autobot, the walls cracked and sparking with the passage of the virus. Keepings his senses on high alert, Mirage swept every curve, every turn, ready to spring into action.

_I caution against frivolous use of the antivirus,_ came Perceptor's words once more. _There is only so long we can keep you connected, and only so much power in the chip. Use your shots wisely, and only when you are completely sure. _

_I never miss,_ Mirage assured him with more than a spark of his old highborn arrogance.

Perceptor had slid him a low glance, as if he was calling the spy's bluff. _Hrmph,_ he had coughed. _I could calculate the probability of that actually happening, but we have not the time._

Mirage rode low on his axels, rounding yet another curve before slamming to a halt. The red swath of the virus spread all about him, leading up to a shimmering, opalescent veil. Hastily, he threw himself back into his robotmode, "pulling" the rifle and clutching it tightly in his hand. _What is this?_ he wondered, mouth slightly agape, looking up and down. At the end of the hall was a low dais with three golden steps leading up to a round portal, wrought-iron filigree arching up and over the circle that was the veil.

_Flare's … mind?_

It had to be; there was no where else to go. A carpet of red blossoms ran up the stairs only to vanish into the veil.

Pursing his lips and setting his face into a grim, determined mask, Mirage lifted his foot and set it upon the first of the stairs. When nothing came of it, he placed his other foot; resolutely, he ascended and took his first up-close look at the veil. Tiny iron birds with long feathers circled the portal, their wings arching up and over their heads, obscuring their faces, save for the crests that flowed over the tops of their beaks. The tip of the tail connected with the beak of the bird behind, all in a circle. Mirage reached out and ran his finger experimentally over the crest of the bird nearest him. He jumped back, rifle at the ready, when the bird's wing moved and the iron head turned to look at him with one bright, diamond-shaped eye.

Slowly, deliberately, the bird winked.

Mirage blinked, astonished, confounded. When he looked again, all was as it had been. Taking it as a good sign – even if it wasn't, he had to press forward – the spy steeled his courage and walked straight through the veil.

Electricity ran lightning-quick over his body, thrummed him to his very spark. So great was the intensity that he stood, riveted to the spot on the other side of the veil. Whatever it had been, it passed and Mirage sighed. _I don't want to do that again_, he thought, running a hand over his face in a rare show of fatigue.

As he looked up, the vision that greeted him was like nothing he had ever seen before: the carpet of red blossoms stretched out, draping the walls of some great domed enclosure, threatening to choke the very essence from its victim. Thorns as large, or larger, than his own head pierced deep, thin trickles of blue and gold weeping from the puncture wounds. Beyond, a golden pyramid sat, its color nearly indiscernible through the roses that spun around and around. What had once been a river, or a moat, was overrun with the crimson virus.

Mirage made a mental note never to give Solarflare roses ever again.

A soft breeze whispered by, touching the spy's cheek with a gentle caress. It came from the pyramid. Squaring his shoulders, Mirage stepped on, trying to avoid touching the roses whenever he could. To his surprise, they neither moved, nor reacted to his presence. _So, Starscream never thought that we would try this maneuver, did he?_ Such arrogance would cost him and Solarflare's life, so Mirage shut the thought away tightly and pressed forth.

Stealthily, the spy crossed the bed of roses and reached the steps of the pyramid. Self-same birds covered the entranceway, though this time, not one moved. Crimson death dared not touch them, but ran in tiny buds between the cracks and continued unhindered through the short hall. Mirage paused but for a moment and thanked the birds, though he wasn't quite sure why.

And with one more step, he saw her …

* * *

She was Solarflare. 

… a magnificent grey-feathered raptor.

… a sweet-faced human with impossible green eyes.

Mirage's finger tightened ever so slightly on the antiviral gun he carried. The journey to the center of his bondmate's mind had been easy – too easy. But that was how Decepticons worked; as their name implied, they let their victims believe that they had the upper hand and then brought forth a crushing attack that drove the unsuspecting fools to the ground. Yet, as he crossed the threshold into the pyramid, he let his guard slip ever so slightly.

"Flare," he whispered. The tri-faced figure huddled in the corner did not so much as glance his way. "… Alina." Gauging the situation, Mirage stepped forward, placing one blue foot onto the gleaming gold tiles that covered the floor in a spiral pattern. Here and there were splotches of roses, but not in abundance as it was on the outside.

_:She can't hear you, Robot Mirage.:_

Too tightly trained, it took all Mirage had not to fire a pellet into the shadow that broke away from the wall and floated above the floor towards him. It had a vaguely canine appearance, tipped ears and ethereally-glowing golden eyes. Then, completely ignoring the spy's dropped-mouth response, the shade turned and looked over at Solarflare. :_The virus has stolen most of who she is:_ it continued.

"Who are you?" the spy demanded, optics flashing about as he prepared for an attack.

_:Names are unimportant; that, and I have many … none of which you'd be familiar with. You brave death yourself, coming here. See how it chokes? She will be gone soon.:_

Bravado caused him to lift the gun and point it at the shadow. "I'll not leave her," he growled, finger inching closer to the trigger. "She ties me to this world and to our cause; without her I have no purpose."

As the shade possessed no discernable head, Mirage was unable to ascertain if it was looking at him with contempt, pity, or a mixture of both. :_She barely has ties to herself. See how she is split? Three souls for one individual is a large burden to bear.:_

Mirage forced himself to look closely, deeply. The base was how she had looked as human; each movement she made was followed by an identical motion by the Harpy Eagle and robot form, transposed over the base. The stock of the gun dipped slightly as he considered the implications. Everyone knew, Flare included, that she had some avian instinct stuck in her mind; how that got in there, no one, not even the three mad scientists who built her in the first place, could explain it. The instincts weren't in their blueprints, though Hound had gone scouting for images for them to base her body upon.

_:Go back:_ the shade insisted, drifting slightly towards the spy. :_Save yourself. She was never meant to live in the first place. She belongs to me.:_

"NO!" Mirage roared, swinging the antiviral gun around with sleek precision. "I'll blast you, Decepticon construct, to slag and beyond if you touch her."

The shadow appeared amused at the thought. On either side of its "head", the two triangles pricked forward. :_No sentient metal being created me, Mirage of the Towers. I have been here, as always.:_ It paused, considering. :_Oh, very well. If you can pass this test, then I suppose you can have her. I take all things in the end.:_ And it was gone, completely and totally gone. Mirage's optics blinked furiously, trying to understand what this whole conversation had been about. He stood over the threshold a moment more, trying to shake the afterimage imprinted on the sensors of his optics … and the howl in his audios.

Presently, he became aware that there was another object in the center of the pyramid: just as Perceptor had explained to him, there it was – a large Decepticon logo with over a dozen tendrils buried deep into the floor. Flickering, fluttering, in no discernable pattern, was a blue sphere, very tiny and very fast. Indeed, it was no larger upon the field of purple than the paperclips Mirage had been shooting at the day Carly had come to talk to him about Solarflare. Setting his mouth, Mirage studied the logo before turning back to Alina-Solarflare-Eagle.

She huddled in the corner furthest away from the logo and the encroaching viral-flowers. "Alina," he whispered, getting down on one knee and holding out his hand to her. The human head hung low before turning up to face him; the raptor's fierce round golden eyes narrowed and the robot appeared aloof.

"Mirage?" She looked at his hand, fear in her wide green eyes – eyes that he'd not seen for four years, not since Ravage had killed her body of flesh. The spy felt his Energon pump tighten, if it was but a phantom feeling. "Is it you?"

"It is," he replied, breathing deep and slow. "I've come to take you home." Beyond, the Autobot-Solarflare sniffed in derision. Mirage looked askance at the other side of his bondmate before turning his attention back to the coherent humanform. "Take my hand, Alina. All I have to do is hit that blue sphere and you will be free."

The fear in her eyes clouded, replaced with a shadow of doubt, of … reluctance. "I've tried," she murmured, looking away, clutching at her arms. "But it's no good. You make one move towards it and she'll attack." Alina tipped her head back to where the Harpy Eagle eyed them both balefully, malevolently.

Old Tower arrogance surged through the spy. "I can do it." Though she still had not taken his hand, he stood up and lifted the muzzle of his rifle. He had not even completed the sweep up when a bolt of grey-black-white struck him on the side of the head. Piercing eagle's cries rang in his head as long, thick claws scraped down the side of his face. Mirage howled and struck out with his left hand, making contact with the bird's chest.

Human and eagle's screams commingled in the pyramid's chamber. Shocked, Mirage lowered the stock of the rifle and the eagle backed away, flapping, fluttering, to the ground to remerge with its base. Alina was hunched over, rubbing her chest, breathing shallowly. Understanding dawning sharp and clear for the highbred spy. In order to destroy the virus, he had to deal with the Harpy Eagle; yet, a blow to it was a blow to her.

"Alina."

Panting, she raised her head, liquid eyes pleading. Asking for what, he did not know. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and lifted the rifle once more. Again, the formel attacked, driving her talons into his shoulder, into the crevices of his plating. White-hot lightning lanced through his ethereal system; the muzzle wavered in its direction. Again and again Mirage batted at the bird, each hit eliciting a dual cry from base and avian. It was the most pump-wrenching thing he ever had to do, but it must be done.

With one optic and hand on the bird, he willed his mind to focus. The minute blue sphere flickered on: up, down, right, left, all around. Taking a deep breath, Mirage paused, sighting it. _One shot,_ he thought, _just one. _

He was Mirage of Iacon Towers, the highborn son of a gleaming city, the best shot between the two warring factions, ever.

Scared, he fired.

---

Ratchet was dozing, one foot propped up on Mirage's table, when the alarms went off. "What? What?" he spluttered, tipping off the stool and falling to the ground in a spread of white on orange. As he raised his head, he heard the sounds of metal clanging on metal. Scrambling to his feet, the CMO watched in horror as Solarflare's body arched high and slammed back to the tabletop, again and again. Her taloned hands clawed rivets in the top, ribbons of steel peeling off and being flung back to land on the floor. "STATUS!" he barked hoarsely, running around to the other side.

"Massive activity in the cortex," First Aid intoned, a quaver in his young vocalizer. "Spikes here and here."

"And Mirage?"

"High activity as well."

Ratchet's fists curled, not from anger, but from the unknown. _What is that pasty pretty boy doing?_ he thought frantically. "I want a scan. Fire it up."

First Aid shoved himself away from the table, rolling backwards on a wheeled stool towards the computer. Quickly, his thin fingers fumbling on the switches, he got the scanner into motion. With a low thrum, the scanner lowered from the ceiling to position itself over Flare's convulsing body. Just as Ratchet was settling it, she stopped moving. Horrified, the CMO reached out with a long arm and hauled poor First Aid along the floor to ram him up against the console set in Flare's table. "STATUS!"

Optics wide, the junior medic did as he was ordered. Where there had been massive activity spikes, now there were none. "Status … normal," he panted.

"And Mirage?"

"Normal."

Storming over to the main computer, Ratchet punched the codes for the scanner activation program. After what seemed like an eternity, a picture resolved upon the screen. "Diagnostic."

"_Scanning …"_ Teletraan-1 intoned. "_Scanning … complete. Diagnostic: subject Solarflare: clean."_

There was a _clang_ as Ratchet's jaw unhinged. The medic lifted limp hands and locked his lower jaw back into its sockets, staring up at the picture on the screen in disbelief. Where there had been angry swatches of red painting her system, there was nothing but the cool lines of a fully-functioning system.

Rubbing his face over and over, Ratchet could still not believe it. Presently, he became aware that First Aid was hailing him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that his apprentice was poised over the controls of Mirage's table. "Bring him out, then ease her out of stasis."

"Is it … is it done?"

All Ratchet could do was nod. He would have liked to whoop and holler, but he was too drained for such elation. "That son of a slag-heap did it. I'll give him a goddamn medal for this!"

"Bringing Mirage out … now," First Aid murmured, half to himself.

Confident that things were out of harm's way, Ratchet leaned over the console and hailed Prime. After a moment, the Autobot commander's head appeared on-screen. "_Ratchet? Did something happen?"_ Prime's face grew closer, the set of his brow ridges betraying his concern.

"Mirage deserved a goddamn commendation, that's what! She's completely clean, Optimus. We're bringing them out right now."

With a sigh, Prime leaned back. "_Good, good. I'll be down later. Prime: out."_

World-weary, Ratchet pushed himself away from the screen and walked stiff-legged towards the tables. Already, Mirage was moaning, faint rasps that might have been words spilling from his lips; his left hand clutched and scrabbled along the other table, searching for Flare. Behind him, First Aid was rolling up the cord that had connected the two with one hand, and with the other, pulling down the panel in the spy's head to remove the chip. As he brought it up to study, his optics bulged: it was crisply black, of no use whatsoever. This he popped into Ratchet's open palm.

Fried. Long hours of work utterly destroyed. But Ratchet only sighed. Such was the price to be paid to save a friend.

"She's waking," First Aid reported softly. And Ratchet turned to welcome another warrior safely home.

**Author's note: My sincere thanks and appreciation to you readers for bringing _More Raptor Than Robot_ to over 1400 hits thusfar. It is my deepest pleasure to entertain. (And no, we're not done!)**


	9. Guilt

**Chapter Eight**

_Which way shall I fly  
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?  
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;  
And in the lowest deep a lower deep,  
Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,  
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.  
Paradise Lost. Book iv. Line 73._

She could hear them talking about her as she lay on the medbay's extra recharging bed, their voices low, yet flowing easily under the cracks in the door. The past few weeks were muzzy; she barely remembered anything save for a few snatches here and there. What had she done? What had she said? Insecurity gnawed at her spark with sharp, tiny teeth, making her feel so very cold inside. There was so much they were leaving out – protecting her. From what? Herself? She knew what she was guilty of: of striking Mirage, of nearly decapitating Sunstreaker. What other horrors were they holding back?

_The virus,_ her conscious repeated, _it was the virus. _

_But you let it,_ guilt responded. _You let it happen, you let yourself be led into believing that all it was, was battle-stress. And they had to come for you … again._

A low sob burbled up from her throat, raw anguish flowing through her optics. Why couldn't she protect herself? Why were they always coming for her?

_Burden, you're a burden,_ guilt waged. _What a warrior you turned out to be!_

Hot tears, borne of washer-fluid they might be, spilled over her cheeks, dripped to the floor: _splot, splot, splot!_

A burden from the day they dragged her bleeding body from the library. A choking, hollow cry rattled in her throat, the cables along her neck vibrating. Who was she? Human? Raptor? Robot? All and none? None but all? Questions pounded her vulnerable cortex, still smarting from the influence of the antivirus Mirage had administered.

Mirage. Thoughts of her bondmate caused her chest to seize, her ventilator to whistle and her pump to throb against her insides.

The grey avian femme rolled off the bunk and made for the door. _Slow, slow,_ she thought to herself. If she bolted, they'd come after her en-masse and toss her into stasis again. Some air would clear her mind, ease her spark, that's all. Dimly, she searched through the darkness to find the panel that would open the door; touching upon it, she pressed and stood back as it sluiced into its recess in the wall. Light assailed her optics and she winced, reaching up and shading them with one hand. Beyond, all conversation stopped: Optimus sat talking with Mirage, Ratchet, Perceptor, Hound, Prowl and Jazz.

She felt animal instinct creeping up on her again, pinned to the wall with their gazes, their pity. She managed a faint wave and tripping slightly over her big black pyramidal feet, she edged out of sight. They called her name, but she ignored them. Couldn't they, for once, leave her alone?

"FLARE!"

With a shrug of her struts, she left them behind. As to who called, she could care less. She had no notion of the day, the time, the schedule. She prayed that she would meet no one in the halls, that no call would come over all-comm with the orders to subdue her. She feared she'd break right then and there, and their efforts would be for naught.

She did meet Windcharger, though. The lean Minibot merely watched her sidle on by, his serene features also bordering on pity. Other than that, she was clear; they must all be out on patrol, or in the rec room, she thought. When she reached the main hanger bay and punched her codes for access to the outside, not one came pounding up from behind to stop her. Not one alarm blew, nor did Red Alert's shrill, accusing voice hail her from the loudspeakers. The pounding in her head eased but a little, and she stepped through the door into the bay. Wide Oregon desert spread out before her, the sun beating gloriously upon the plain, dull brown rocks. A little of the cold dispelled as she moved quickly towards the exit.

A walk; she'd take a walk, then submit to whatever it was they wanted. But for now, she wanted to be alone.

As she left the overhanging lip, a whine of cameras made her look up. The largest had its nose pointed directly at her. That did it. With a howl of pure anguish, Flare threw herself up into the sky, wrenching her battered body into flightmode.

* * *

Through a crack in the rocks, twin eyes watched. _Where do you go, little flesh-turned-mech?_ Ravage sat low on his haunches, the cat in him finding skulking in the rocks like a primitive vole revolting. The professional in him only reminded himself that it was better to be outside than inside the rotten hulk of their ship, which was under more water than he cared to think about. 

"Ravage to Soundwave."

"_Report."_

"The female lives. Starscream's virus has been thwarted by Autobot ingenuity once more. I am following her."

Silence on the other end. Ravage smiled to himself; Soundwave would not question his motives. He was free to do as he pleased, as long as he reported back in. The Cat pulled himself lithely, supplely from the crevice he was stuck in. Curving his head around, Ravage eyed the tilt of his twin proton bombs before loping off into the distance. It was time to reawaken an old friendship.

* * *

Instinct drove her, fueled her twin boosters with the intense need to be away from the great orange eyesore that was a spacecrusier. Instinct that had only a few days ago overpowered her cognizant abilities and reduced her to nothing more than a metallic animal. A glimmer of a tear made from washer fluid appeared at the corner of each golden optic, only to be snatched up by the wind and blown far from her body as if was never there in the first place. _I'm sorry, Mirage,_ she sobbed in her cortex. _I failed you, I failed Optimus, Ratchet, Wheeljack, Perceptor … I failed you all. You remade me, you gave me life and here I am … nothing but a girl in the body of a robot. Useless, a target._ The coils inside her neck constricted, preventing her from vocalizing the cry in her head. It would only be stolen by the wind, anyway. 

And so instinct pushed her on.

On and on until she lost track of where she was going, where she had been. When she looked down upon the landscape, there was not one scrap of familiarity among the trees, the rocks or the rivers that flowed through a gleaming valley. Amongst this alien territory, she decided to land. Sick in heart and mind, weary in spark, Solarflare pulled her wings up, cutting the power to her boosters by half and half again. Slowly, smoke trickled out from the cylinders, the fire extinguished so that she had to glide in. Deadly titanium talons sliced through the dew-covered grass so easily that she miscalculated – the first time ever – and skidded halfway across the valley and plunged head-first into the brook.

Water filled her nares and throat, flooded her system. With a cry, Solarflare shot up, blowing water mixed with silver fluid through her pipes. She transformed right there in the stream, wincing as the tiny particles in the flow ground into her circuits. A hiss and a spit sounded from her right flank; Solarflare turned her head, water dripping from her helm, to stare at the spot with a certain amount of disconnection. Was that her thigh that was sparking?

Memory tugged at her cortex, a voice she remembered as Ratchet's berating her for getting his repair work messed up as soon as she'd hopped off the table. "I'm sorry," she whispered to the air. And the air replied: "For what?"

Training had her up on her big, black pyramidal feet, brook water sloshing over the tiny bank. The land soaked it up easily enough, satisfied. Sitting with perfect feline precision not a hundred yards from where she stood dripping was Ravage, his steel-fanged jaws hung low, gleaming yellow eyes regarding her steadily.

Memory tugged again, of a time long ago when she had been of flesh and blood; of pain and the snapping of bone and tearing of muscle. "I said," the great jaws pronounced, "what are you sorry for?"

Too weary to recall one of Sunstreaker's classic retorts, she remained as she was, limbs hanging awkwardly down, wings digging into the streambed. "Come, come, little Solarflare, let's be civil here. I asked you a question. Do give me the courtesy of a reply."

Swaying a little, Solarflare clenched her fists, feeling her talons slide forth from their sheaths and bite the less-protected palms of her hands. "Did you give me the courtesy of life, Ravage? I don't seem to recall any mercy on your part at the library."

The great Cat refrained from shrugging. "Neither here nor there, Solarflare. That is the past; let us deal with the present, shall we? Now, why are you sorry?"

Solarflare looked down at the rippling water, the intricate patterns it made as it swirled about her toes and wingtips. She glanced up and found Ravage to be now sitting on the bank; she didn't even see him move! "Fine," she hissed, reaching out with her hands and crawling up onto the bank. She didn't even care if she put her vulnerable neck cables in line with Ravage's jaws. "I'm … sorry that I'm such a burden to bear."

"A burden?" the Cat replied thoughtfully, almost in friendly conversation. "How so? As far as I can recall, you've held your own against us. Quite mightily so."

Solarflare looked down at her hands, at the talons that protruded from her fingertips. "You can say that, because you don't see the home life." She thought about all the times Red Alert had accused her of being the Ark pet, the favorite because she had been born human. Fresh fluid rolled down her sharp white cheeks to join their brethren in the swirling waters of the brook below. "I'm a burden because of who I am, of what I was." Her vocalizer caught and she coughed, trying to dislodge the wad of lubricant that seemed to collect there.

"They carry you, compensate for you," the Cat mused, bending his head to rub the side of his face with a paw. "You feel that they are better off without you to create trouble."

"Yes," she choked. The admission nearly cost what little of her sanity she'd been able to gather once she'd woken up. "Trouble follows me – look at what Starscream did."

The Black Jaguar was silent for a moment. He tilted his head to the side, as if looking for something in the peaceful tranquility of the trees. "True," he rumbled. "And it appears to me that you wish to end it."

Actually, that never occurred to her; at the most, go far, far away and live in solitude for as long as her parts would function. "I could help you, you know," Ravage continued, completely oblivious as cats were to mortal behavior.

She looked at him, crest flat. "How so?"

"Let me take your spark, and then it will be over."

"And what would you do with it? Manipulate it?" Flare's crest quirked, a bit of her old humor returning. "Turn me into some dark Decepticon Phoenix? No, go away, Ravage."

The Cat regarded her impassively. "There is no 'yes' or 'no', pretty little Solarflare. Of your own volition you have chosen to remain by my side while Lord Megatron's troops gather around. You have no wish to rejoin your comrades, so the safest possible course of action is to give up. Let go of that spark, little human-turned-mechanoid. Give unto Ravage that which I rightfully own."

_All things come to me in the end …_

Solarflare's optics blinked, cortex throbbing as she tried to remember some half-forgotten scrap of words from a face near to Ravage's own. Only … only more canine. And gentle.

Ravage regarded her steadily, his cold yellow optics fixed on her golden ones. "Give it up, let it go," he fairly crooned, an odd purr carrying along with his words. He moved forward, one step, than another, the proton bombs on his hips angling forward – more of an incentive to do what he bid.

"Let go …" she found herself replying thickly. Yes, she just wanted it to be over with; no more trouble. Her slim black fingers traveled upwards to her chest plate, towards the hidden, recessed latches that held it in place. Ravage watched as Decepticons gathered from the fringe. Solarflare pressed downwards and the plate popped; slowly, reverently, she lowered it down. Within a complex tangle of cables, nodes, gaskets and pins, a rainbow shimmered iridescently.

"Spark, extract," she intoned in a voice not her own.

"_Spark extraction not advisable,"_ chimed her system back at her.

"Override. Spark extraction."

"_Unadvisable."_

"OVERRIDE!"

"_Spark extraction commencing; system shutdown eminent in T-minus ten, nine …"_

_Goodbye, my love …_ she whispered, and gave herself over to the darkness.

* * *

Hound found her curled on her side, fingers trailing idly in the stream, chest plate a few feet from her body. 

Dead.

From head to toe, Solarflare was completely grey; not the flush grey vibrancy she normally wore, but the flat, lifeless grey of oblivion. The tracker was aghast, mortified and completely shattered. He slammed to his knees in the wet grass and gathered her body to his boxy chest, fluid poring down his face in unchecked streams, his own little rivers of sorrow. Tiny Solarflare, graceful Flare, generous, kind, loving, Ark darling … gone, all gone.

"What is it, Hound?" he heard Optimus say from behind. "What have you found?"

"Hey! That's Flare's chest plate!" exclaimed Brawn. "And her feet! Those Decepticons took her apart –"

Slowly, agedly, Hound stood up, Solarflare dangling from his green arms, a lurid splotch of grey against the pure pine green of his paint. Her innards flashed for everyone to see, bereft of spark.

"Primus!" Optimus hissed.

Trailbreaker pawed at the ground where Solarflare had been lying. When the big black Autobot turned his face to look Optimus in the optic, he was grim. "There's no struggle, Prime" He lowered his head, shoulders sagging with the weight of discovery; how could she have done this? How could she have given up?

"What are you spewing, Breaker?" Sunstreaker spat. "Look around you! I can smell Con-stink all over this place." He stalked over to Optimus, gun in hand. "I'll take care of this, Prime. Let me loose."

"No."

"What?" Sunstreaker was aghast. For once he thought he had the all-set to tear some Decepticon aft – and Prime wanted to stand and gawk at the crime scene! "Prime!"

The tall warrior turned on his heel and stared down at the yellow melee soldier. "No," he repeated firmly, his finger tightening on the trigger of his laser gun. "You and your brother will not go charging off on a suicide mission. Hound."

The tracker's head lifted slowly from where he was gazing into Solarflare's dead face. "Aye, Prime?"

"Give Solarflare to Sunstreaker, Hound. Take some of the men and find out what happened here."

Solemnly, resolutely, the green tracker passed his friend's corpse to Sunstreaker, who was uncharacteristically subdued. Hound studied the warrior's face but for a moment and saw something etched there that he hadn't seen before. Whatever there was between the twins and Flare, he wasn't sure; she'd often said they tolerated her, and she them, more than anything else. Perhaps she was wrong.

Loathe as he was, Hound turned his back to the corpse and motioned to Trailbreaker, Jazz, … and … saw Mirage. Groaning, the tracker watched as the spy crossed the valley, the muzzle of his hunting rifle dragging through the plush grass, soiling the tip and clogging it, effectively nullifying its killing ability. He walked as a mech would to the smelter, slowly, his optics shrouded by the crest of his helm. Sunstreaker turned around and wordlessly passed Solarflare's body to the spy. Mirage paused long enough to take possession of her frame and kept walking, past the small contingent, over the brook and onto the other side of the serene valley.

As everyone watched – they didn't really want to, but they couldn't tear their sensors away – Mirage knelt down and pressed his forehead to Solarflare's trifold crest. His arms went around her and he began rocking back and forth, never making one sound. Not even his plating creaked, nor did Solarflare's for that matter.

Several beats of the Energon pump went by before Mirage stood up again, Flare's legs dangling on free hinges, head lolling over his shoulder, mouth agape. Her crest flapped uselessly, not held in place by emotion; wings dragged the ground as he carried her back to the group.

"Mirage …" Prime tried, reaching out for his arm. But the spy was slowly slipping away, fading into nothingness. Solarflare's body hovered in front of Sunstreaker and the melee warrior tripped forward in order to take it back.

And then there was just the wind blowing sweetly through the trees, ruffling the grass, drying it. It pushed across the slack face of the avian femme, a last kiss from a forlorn lover.

"Shouldn't we stop him?" Prowl asked, his own impassive façade cracked and broken. No matter what had happened between them, he felt the pain. "He'll just go off and get himself slagged."

Optimus Prime shook his head. "No, leave him. I won't deny him anything at this moment. However, we still have work to do. Sunstreaker: load Solarflare into my trailer; we're heading back to base. Whatever transpired here, I want to know. Hopefully Ratchet will be able to tell us what the cause of extinguishment was. Hound." The tracker snapped to attention. "Finish picking your band. The rest of you …" And Prime looked over them all. "… we roll back home. Nothing more can be accomplished here."

They shuffled, hemmed, hawed, pawed at the ground with their large feet; stared at the spot where the lone femme of the Ark had lain down and supposedly given herself to the Matrix. And Optimus, being the leader, the one with the stiffest resolution, tore himself away and transformed, this time not caring if he ruined the pristine valley with tire tracks. This was Solarflare's mausoleum, not nature. He lowered his trailer door and Sunstreaker dipped his noble head in, laying the femme on a small slab within. Sideswipe reached around his brother and placed her chestplate by her side before stepping back and watching Optimus roll home with his precious cargo.

* * *

Hound decided that it would be best if he pulled Sunstreaker and Sideswipe from the group before they all left, as well as Prowl. Together, the six scoured the valley, picking up traces of Decepticon feet, which differed from Autobots' only due to the boosters in their heels. As he literally sniffed the perimeter, Trailbreaker came up beside him to voice his concerns. "I can't comprehend why she'd do it," the big black bot whispered sorrowfully. "She adjusted so well …" 

"I don't think anyone believes that she gave up," Hound replied, lifting a branch to inspect a break. "But, Breaker … there are two possible solutions here. One: Flare gave up and the Decepticons came here only to find her gone. Two: they came for her and killed her."

"I'm more inclined towards the latter," he grumbled, rubbing his forehead.

"So am I, but, in light of what happened, the former could very well end up being the truth. And if that's what Ratchet finds out, we have to accept it."

"But will _he_?"

Hound stood up, more to scrutinize a leaf of shattered bark than relieve the pressure in his mind. "I don't know. He might come back, he might stay away permanently. Slag, he might even give up himself; he loved Flare more than anything, more than Cybertron." From a tactical point of view, they could not lose the spy; Mirage was such an integral part of the operation that Hound doubted they could continue and win without his cloaking ability on their side. He kept those concerns private, however. No need to bring up conjectures when they were trying to solve a possible murder.

"Hey, gents, is this what you were looking for?" Hound and Trailbreaker looked up and spun around to see Sunstreaker gesturing madly to a spot on the ground on the complete other side of the valley. "I told you this place stank of Decepticon gas," the yellow melee warrior sniffed, putting his hands on his hips and preening. "_Now_ do you believe me?" They all gathered around to bear witness to the Lamborghini's discovery: torn grass and the distinct pattern of Decepticon booster-heels.

Hound looked to Prowl for direction. In reply, the second-in-command lifted his wrist. "Prowl to Optimus."

"_Optimus here."_

With five pairs of optics watching him steadily, palming guns and rifles from subspace, Prowl replied, "We found the Decepticons' trail. We're headed in." Around the small circle, battle grins started sprouting, especially on the Twins.

"_Do you require assistance?"_

Grimly, Prowl considered those in his presence. "Not likely. Prowl, out." Shutting down the commlink, the vice-commander reached out with his pistol and staved the Twins from plowing headlong into the underbrush. "Tact, gentlemen. Remember, we're here to gather information."

Sideswipe's expression could have been considered satanic. "And afterwards, can we dismember them?"

Prowl turned slowly and levered his gaze on the spot where Flare had fallen. "Most assuredly. Let's go."

---

Megatron called for a halt a few miles into the woods. It would have been prudent to take their prize back to the base, but he had a burning desire to see this artifact _now_.

"Ravage."

The Black Jaguar trotted forward, the spark of the grey femme held featherlight in his iron jaws. This he placed with mock reverence at the charcoal feet of his commander. Megatron threw the Jaguar a dagger-sharp glance, yet demeaned himself by bending down and picking the spark up in his hand. "Scrapper." The Constructicon genius stepped forward immediately. "What – is this?"

Scrapper bent forward, eager to take it in his own hands, but Megatron would not allow such sacrilege. In their leader's paw was a glowing, iridescent object, almost ethereal in nature, encased within a clear shell. Around its surface were several nodules, possibly ports. "It … appears to be a source of power." He shuffled around Megatron's outstretched arm to get a better look. Megatron snatched it back, holding it near his cannon arm.

"Ravage. Where on the she-bot did you get this?"

The Cat appeared to consider his commander's words. "It is her spark," he said succinctly, plainly not willing to divulge any more information than he was specifically asked for.

"A spark?" Scrapper repeated in disbelief. "That is no spark, Lord Megatron."

Deep within the iron black Cat, a growl rumbled. It echoed deep within his hollow chest and emanated outwards menacingly. "You call my words false? I took it from her very chest. It is her spark." He rose sleekly, his proton bombs inclining towards the Constructicon.

Megatron frowned. "A spark, you say, Ravage?" The Cat snarled agreement. "Curious. Undoubtedly, Prime will have his lapdogs on our trail when they find the she-bot's shell." He held the unusual spark and its casing up to the dappled light of the woods, turning it so that he might observe it from every possible angle. "A rare prize, this one. I wonder what Prime will bargain with to retrieve it."

"I still say it is not a spark, Megatron," Scrapper insisted. "How can it be? Why would it be encased?"

"A special spark, then, my dear Scrapper," the gunmetal grey Decepticon returned smoothly. "Well, Starscream. What have you to say? The one you sought to destroy had something of value after all."

The Air Commander huddled in the shadows, splotches of sun and shadow dancing over his maimed features. The marks of Megatron's disapproval lay bare for all to witness in the scars of half-hearted soldering on his face; his right arm hung useless, attached merely for show. He curled his lip and hung back further, the sting of Ravage's triumph burning a hole deep into his own dark spark.

"What, nothing to say?" Megatron cruelly mocked. "Sulk, then, Starscream."

Down on the leaf-strewn floor, Ravage smiled to himself. What entertainment!

"Well done, Ravage," the warlord murmured, holding the spark and its shell casing up to his optics once more. "If only all my soldiers had your intelligence – and track record. Yet … you are holding back something." The Cat's ears flicked back and he cursed himself for his premature smugness. "Divulge, now!"

The Black Jaguar decided that it would be best for his gleaming hide to do just that: "AUTOBOTS!"


	10. Faith of the Heart

**Chapter Nine**

_See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds,  
With joy and love triumphing.  
Paradise Lost. Book iii. Line 337._

No branch rustled, no leaf stirred both on the ground and above. Yet, there was a visitor in the deep solitude of the forest.

Mirage walked slowly, invisibly. It was the only way he could ever properly express his grief. _Why did you leave me, Alina?_ He paused in a pool of light, looking up through the spaces between the great branches, covering his face with slim black, invisible palms, cortex overwhelmed with grief. _We promised to win this war together, to return to Cybertron victorious._

Yes, the thoughts of Cybertron, of its gleaming towers and sparkling cities had come back. It was as if Solarflare's presence had kept the homesickness at bay. And if he spent a little time reflecting on that phenomenon, he would have agreed with the analysis.

Left alone, his cortex turned in ever-increasing circles. What about the plans they'd made? How they would go back to Cybertron and rebuild the Towers? The summer house in Monte Carlo? (Okay, those were his ideas, but she'd agreed to them eagerly enough. So he revised his proposal; _Primus_, if she were still here, he'd make sure that they gave Grapple and Hoist enough credits to build a beach house in Santa Monaco. He'd buy all of California if necessary.)

Images twirled, swirled in complex patterns. How he longed to return triumphant to Cybertron with his wild avian femme on his arm. Oh, how she would be the talk of the upper echelon! Her exotic features, bold manner, vibrant personality; more interesting company than any of those slim, protoform femmes he had prowled around with when he was younger.

_Alinaflaresolarflarealinaflarealinaalina … _

He thought of his creator – what would have she thought of Solarflare? She had always gently chastised him for never bringing home a femme (or mech, she didn't care which way her baby boy swung as long as he was happy) for her to fawn over. Mirage had never found her body, nor that of the mech who lived with them as her bondmate in the ruins of the Towers. Thoughts of them nearly pushed him off the edge; old wounds mixing with the bleeding fresh. Solarflare would have loved Dusk, and she in turn, he thought miserably. They were very much alike, subdued in color, intelligent, with a penchant for picking the pretty boys and making full-grown mechs out of them.

Mirage quirked a grin before his face fell back into its sorrowful hollow. Dusk always commented on how he took after Switchblade, no more noble a mech had lived – nor arrogant one. And yet, Dusk loved him; just as Solarflare had loved … _loves_ … Mirage. Two halves of a whole; complementing each other. Mirage remembered how Switchblade would affect the airs only outside of Dusk's presence, how he gave everything of himself to her at home. As a younger mech, Mirage had scoffed at those silly platitudes; now, wiser, bereft, he understood.

Life among the Towers had accustomed him to privilege; it also made him aware of the benefits of family. And here, on Earth, it was even more so.

_Primus … all I ask is that we meet again in the Matrix._

And so he walked; to what ends, he would never know, for the next few steps brought him upon the Decepticons. And Megatron held Solarflare's spark in his hand.

* * *

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Megatron and his merry band of aft-heads," Sunstreaker called out, circling to one side of the small clearing, Sideswipe taking the other. "I thought you were beyond pretty baubles, slagger." 

The smirk on Megatron's face never wavered. He raised the unusual spark, turning it so that the light hit it full on the top. "This one amuses me. However, I'm not beyond acquiring another." His hand curled around the casing, slowly increasing the pressure on it. The action was well-rewarded – the Twins came to a halt, their weapons pointed at his head.

Not far behind came Trailbreaker, Hound, Jazz and Prowl, their determined faces swiftly changing to grim battlemasks.

"With this, the she-bot lives, does she not, Prowl?" Megatron continued, his fingertips biting into the spark.

Prowl's lip curled, betraying his emotions. He lifted his hand and gestured; Trailbreaker and Hound joined Sideswipe while Jazz moved towards Sunstreaker. At the back of the clearing, Decepticons shifted: not all that he'd thought there'd be. Starscream and Scrapper, plus Soundwave and Ravage. The second-in-command's lip curled again, this time in a flicker of amusement. Starscream appeared to have been wrung through an old-fashioned human washing machine.

Megatron did not like the cruiser's refusal to reply. As much as he wanted to keep the unique spark, to torture and to gain information from, it wasn't that valuable. "Say goodbye to the female, Prowl." To the Autobots' horror, he placed the spark into the muzzle of his arm cannon and lifted it to the sky.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker loosed identical battle cries and bolted forward. They need not have had to.

A wild howl tore through the heavy air; Megatron's cannon was ripped from his arm and thrown backwards by invisible hands. The Decepticon grunted and stumbled, tripping over ancient roots as a hole the size of an Autobot's fist suddenly blossomed along his lower torso.

"Go!" Mirage's voice exploded as Decepticon fire erupted around the clearing. "I'll cover you!" His body ripped into the visible spectrum, one hand on his shoulder-mounted cannon.

Jazz sprang forward, diving under an onslaught of energy bursts to grab Megatron's cannon and shake the spark free from the barrel. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe flanked him, white-hot death flaring from the muzzles of their own guns. Quickly, the saboteur stuffed the spark into a safe subspace compartment and transformed, ramming through the tree cover with absolute disregard for nature and himself.

"Hound! Trailbreaker! Go!" Prowl ordered, dodging energy bolts to let off a few of his own. The cruiser was pleased to see Soundwave go down; Scrapper remained pinned by the second's own fire. Starscream, at some point, had retreated, melting into the shadows like a haunt. That left Mirage and Megatron: the spy and Decepticon were tangled up on the floor, the smaller mech vainly trying to keep his advantage. Sorely, he was losing – and quick.

"Mirage!"

With a massive right hook to the jaw, Megatron smashed Mirage to the ground and kicked the spy in the side as he fell, throwing him into Prowl. The black and white cruiser went down in a sprawl with the Ligier, only Sideswipe and Sunstreaker's cover saving them both. Megatron ran forward, grabbed his cannon and in a torrent of flames, was gone. Beyond, Scrapper and Soundwave picked themselves up and ran for it. Ravage glared at them before he, too, melted into the darkness.

Gasping, Prowl gingerly lifted his head; Mirage lay face down over his back, idle smoke curling from a large wound on his shoulder. The Twins were sniffing around the perimeter, actually skulking in the face of a short battle. Finding nothing more in the shadows, they returned to Prowl and Mirage.

"Well, well, if it isn't the Invisible Man," Sunstreaker called out, reaching down and grabbing the white-blue Ligier by one arm and hauling him upright. "Yanno, you're crazy."

Mirage's head lolled back, inky stains spread along his blue helm. "Did …?"

Sideswipe nudged him in the upper torso, none-too-gently – but that was the way of the Twins. They hurt you even if they liked you. "Yeah, Jazz got her out." He paused. "Well, part of her. Her spark, yanno."

Prowl levered himself up without any help and surreptitiously brushed dirt off his chrome. "Let's head home, men. Mirage, can you transform?"

The spy lifted his head and merely looked at Prowl. "As if I'm built for this," he sighed. "I think I'll walk, anyway. At least until the road." Slipping out of the Twins' grasp, the spy wobbled a moment before righting himself. Thus he returned to the woods, not even bothering to cloak himself, as it would have been a futile attempt, what with the holes in his armor.

Sideswipe threw Sunstreaker a look. "You're right, bro, he is nuts."

Prowl sighed and rolled his optics, making his way to the path Jazz had cut into the forest growth.

* * *

Ironhide stood next to Optimus, shading his optics against the light of the dying sun. A cool wind blew through the mountains and swirled the dirt about the old veteran's blocky feet. Off to the right was Ratchet, impatiently tapping his foot and checking the time on his chronometer. "Where _are_ they?" 

"Ah, cool yer jets, Ratch," Ironhide drawled, not even bothering to call over his shoulder at the CMO.

"I would if I knew that I had unlimited time in which to put an extracted spark back into its body! But I don't! It could be for nothing …"

"Peace, Ratchet," Prime murmured, turning slightly and lifting his hand in a calming motion. The medic huffed and went on tapping his foot. "There they are."

Jazz roared into view, flanked by Hound and Trailbreaker, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe; Prowl brought up the rear, ever-cautious. The Porsche threw himself into robotmode and presented a stricken CMO with his prize. "Special delivery!"

"SLAG!" Ratchet roared and snatched the spark from the saboteur's hand, leaving Jazz gape-mouthed.

"Do I smell?" he asked, watching Ratchet pound his way back into the Ark. Jazz lifted his arm and sniffed experimentally. "Nope."

With a keen optic, Optimus scanned the returnees. "Prowl, where's Mirage?" Upon leaving the woods, Prowl had made contact with the Ark, informing Prime of what occurred.

Transforming, the second-in-command saluted. "Walking."

"Walking?" Ironhide repeated incredulously. "Why?"

Optimus' brow ridge drew down. "Is he all right?"

Prowl looked to Hound. The tracker stared blankly back. "I suppose so," Prowl said. "He took a hit to the shoulder in the melee, but he seemed fine. He should be back – when … I don't know."

"I am back," a voice from the air replied. A shadow on a boulder shifted and resolved itself into the Ligier spy, small sparks rising from the hole in his shoulder – one that he had concealed by melding with the rock's natural curves and bumps.

"I thought you were walking," Sunstreaker said, folding his arms.

Mirage shrugged, biting back a mewl of pain from straining his shoulder. "I did. Then I rolled when I hit the highway." A small smirk of Tower arrogance lit the spy's face. "You're not the fastest one on the road, you know, Sunny."

The huge yellow Autobot stalked up to the wounded Ligier and put a big, fat finger in his face. "You're lucky Flare likes your face the way it is," he barked, "otherwise I might turn you into a Picasso."

"Didn't Ratchet use that one already?" Jazz quipped, grinning, the dying sun reflecting off his blue visor. Sunstreaker flipped Jazz the bird and stomped into the Ark, followed closely by his brother.

"Mirage." Prime's voice cut through to the spy and his smirk slipped back into grim neutrality.

"Aye, Chief?"

Prime drew close; around, the others shifted, shuffled, and finally decided that it would be best if they left the two alone. Optimus reached out and put a large blue hand on the Ligier's working shoulder. "How are you?"

The large Autobot was paternal almost to a fault. Mirage bent his head and considered what his reply should be. His line of work did not call for complete and total honesty, and he was not above slipping a white lie into what he said now and then. But not this. This questioning cut him to the quick. "A mess." With the admission, his shoulders dipped and he swayed on his feet, clutching his ruined arm. Instantly, Optimus' hand tightened, giving him stability.

"Do you want me to take you to the bay?"

Mirage looked up. "No." The word surprised him. No, he couldn't see her; he couldn't be there if it was beyond hope. "Just … take me to Grapple."

Prime knew better than to question. He tightened his grip, then the two began their slow trek inside.

---

Dying wasn't all it was cracked up to be. The moment of extraction, she'd fallen into what seemed to be sleep; her vision took on that blurred quality, and she felt buoyant, light, airy. A green-green meadow, impeccable in its upkeep, spread out before her and she floated along, completely at ease.

_So, this is Heaven … the Matrix?_ To which did she belong?

_:To whichever you choose.:_

She spun, taken aback by the calm, clear voice that spoke directly above her right ear. Great golden eyes, ringed with fire and wisdom, regarded her steadily. Beyond, the meadow receded into warm darkness. :_Not yet, though, I am afraid. I told your mate you were mine, but not yet. That is … of course … if you wish to join me:_

"I … have a choice?" Her voice sounded hollow, distant.

_:Everyone has a choice.:_

She turned her head. "What place is there for me – back there? I'm only a burden."

_:Friends and lovers do not fight for burdens:_ the resonant voice continued, drifting back slightly. She saw a curve of jaw, black-furred; a sharp-cut nose, two pricked ears layered with gold on the inside. His name … His name …

In the center of the shade's chest, an image formed. She leaned forward, her blurry vision making it difficult to pick out the details. She wanted to see, desperately.

Warm breath passed over her face and the image and the creature faded into blissful blackness.

* * *

Ratchet thumped Solarflare's chest, hard; the errant ventilator wheezed and kicked into action. A soft whir, almost inaudible, wafted up from the depths of her frame. Satisfied, the CMO picked up his handheld scanner and fanned it over her body, checking the efficiency of her coolant and fuel lines. As he worked, Ratchet mused over a nickname Spike had given Solarflare once: the Phoenix. Though she'd been based off a Harpy Eagle, the human legend seemed apropos: a creature rising from its own death to live again. 

_Damn luck,_ the medic grumbled, preferring to stay in reality. Yes, pure, unadulterated luck was what allowed them to take her much-abused spark and reinsert it into her cold grey husk. But not after checking the shell for breakage. If so much as a wisp of soul escaped, she wouldn't function properly, wouldn't be Solarflare. And one by one, her dead system's parts came back online, her body became once more infused with color – or brighter, as she was essentially, colorless.

"Cortex analysis."

"Functional," First Aid reported.

"Efficiency?"

"One hundred percent – maximum."

Good, good. She wasn't offline long enough for decay to set in. "Bring her out – again."

The low hum that permeated the medbay slowly wound down into silence as First Aid turned off the life support and unblocked the barriers that were keeping Solarflare in stasis. They waited a moment, then two – slowly, with the intensity of street lamps turning on, her optics went from bronze to bright gold. Solarflare gasped, coughed and sat bolt upright, clutching at her chest.

Ratchet let her hack a few moments more, punishment for putting him and so many others through the wringer, before slapping her smartly between her shoulder struts. Slowly, her head turned, optics focusing on his chevron before slipping down his chest to the floor.

"Welcome back … again."

"Why …" she rasped, bending her head, wings limp.

"That's my question for you, missy." He reached down and grabbed her by the chin, forcing her head up to look him in the optics. "We just repaired you. Why did you leave?"

Flare looked to the side, embarrassed, depressed, degraded. They wouldn't understand, not ever. "I had to," she whispered low, the words almost unintelligible as fresh tears leaked from the edges of her optics and spilled down her sharp-planed cheeks.

With a half-snarl, half-sigh, Ratchet let go of her chin and knelt on the floor, placing his hands on either side of her thighs. "Why?" he repeated.

Some answer burbled out from her quavering lips. Ratchet gripped her thighs, forcing her to look at him. "Bur … den."

Ratchet exhaled noisily, shaking his head. "Never."

Emotions still raw, still burning deep within her spark, caused her shoulders to shake uncontrollably. First Aid watched nervously from the side, completely bereft of ideas for what to do.

"I – always – have to – be – saved," she hiccupped. "Why – why else – would – Red watch – watch me? Be-cause … I'm trouble."

_Blasted paranoid bastard!_ Ratchet fumed. "Four years you've been with us, Flare. Never once have I heard anyone complain that you have been anything but a help, a blessing. You do your share and more. That doesn't constitute a burden in my book."

"Red …"

"Slag Red!" he roared, gripping her thighs with more force than he intended. Flare squawked, talons sliding out. "I mean," Ratchet began more quietly, "Red can go shove his opinions up his squeaky clean tailpipe for all I care. You have two people to please: Prime and Prowl – plus yourself. That's it. Anyone else can eat slag."

Solarflare sighed, reaching up to draw her shaking fingers across her face to clear the liquid from her cheeks. Ratchet signaled Aid, who surreptitiously slid his master a rag. Ratchet lifted the rag and delicately began drying the fluid from her face. "Now, I know you're overwhelmed, but we do need you." Flare looked over the edges of the rag, trying to find some glimmer of artificial sympathy, but all she found was truth. "Everyone has their place here, even those blasted, prancing flowers you call your friends."

Slowly, the shaking stopped and she nodded, words still beyond her. "Now, who are you?"

The grey avian femme sitting perched on the table top drew a long, quivering breath through her intakes. "Solarflare."

"What do you do?"

"Communications."

"What are you?"

"Autobot."

"What are you?"

"A warrior."

_Daughter_, the CMO tacked on silently. "Good girl. Now get that feathered aft off my table. I don't want to see you here for a long, long time."

Light-infused golden optics widened in surprise. "I … you don't want me here?"

"For what?" Ratchet retorted, getting up off his knees, the gruff exterior back in place. "You're fixed, aren't you? Go find that pretty boy of yours. I don't know where he is, but he's around." He observed as her face almost crumpled with the realization that she'd hurt someone else with her actions; out of the corner of his optic, he watched as she dug her talons into the palms of her hands, steeling her resolution before leaping off the table. He had a hand out in case she tripped again, but she steadied herself, spine straight, wings curved over her shoulders, the pinions slick against her back.

Her walk was a bit jittery, but she managed to bring herself to the door without problems. As it shut behind her, Ratchet turned to First Aid. "And that is what we do."

The junior medic nodded. There was still a lot he had to learn – about medicine and people in general. "What now?" he ventured. "Is she all right?"

Ratchet shrugged. "Don't know. We'll find out soon enough. Now, help me clean this mess up."


	11. Epilogue: Acceptance

**Epilogue**

_It's been a long road  
Getting from there to here  
It's been a long time  
But my time is finally near  
"Where My Heart Will Take Me" – Russell Watson_

She found him in the abandoned rec room, sitting with his back to the door at one of the tables that dotted the area. His arms were moving, his head bent low over some task that she couldn't see. Solarflare hung back, acutely aware of the tension that flowed through the room; she chewed her lip, wondering if she should give voice to her sorrow, to tell him how sorry she was. But she didn't want the reply to be silence; she couldn't bear it.

She had screwed up so badly, so very badly. She had betrayed him and everyone else. Instead of taking it like a warrior, she'd run and almost gotten herself completely slagged in the end. Would they trust her now? Would they honor her judgments, her opinions? She feared she'd slipped in social worth for what she'd done.

While Solarflare fidgeted in the doorway, Mirage continued with whatever task he was undertaking. She knew he was aware of her presence; that he chose to ignore it told her two things: one, he was waiting for her to say something, or two, he just didn't care anymore. Right now, she didn't blame him if he didn't want anything to do with her.

_Do it, Solarflare, go on …_

She lifted one black pyramidal foot and walked hesitantly over to the other side of the table. Mirage did not look up, nor did he dismiss her. Taking his silence for approval, she pulled the chair back and sat down, leaning her forearms on the surface and pillowed her head there. The spy was cleaning his hunting rifle: he'd broken it down into its most basic components and was meticulously swabbing each piece with an oversized Q-tip and a vial of slightly odorous fluid. Normally, Solarflare didn't watch the spy do maintenance work – it was the one thing about him that she found utterly boring – but tonight, she watched: watched how his slim black hands deftly worked the Q-tip into each nook and cranny, the angle of his head, the set of his mouth.

She watched him until her spark was fit to burst with love and sadness. Tears trickled slowly down her cheeks in embarrassment, in revulsion.

"Hand me your gun, Solarflare."

Startled, she looked up. Mirage had pushed the pieces of his sniper rifle to the side and was uncorking a second bottle that he'd pulled from subspace. He didn't look at her, not yet; he fiddled with the cap and set it to the side. Perplexed, Flare patted the black holsters on either side of her hips; the latch on the right popped open and she withdrew the small, slim purple pistol, surprised that she'd still been allowed to carry a loaded gun. This she laid in the center of the table, looking at the white-blue spy from under the safety of her crest. Mirage reached out and took it, tilting it from side to side, holding it up to the light at certain moments. He then began to break it into its components for cleaning.

"Do you remember when we first met, Solarflare?" he asked idly, still using her full name.

Lifting her head from her forearms, she strained to see his optics. "Yes," she whispered, afraid of her own vocalizer.

"What happened?"

Flare chewed her lip again, her talons flicking in and out nervously. "I was sitting here, on the table, and talking with Skyfire, Bluestreak … Bumblebee, I think. You were over there, in the corner. You got a drink."

"Do you remember when we first talked?" He still spoke with his head down, fingers moving in intricate patterns across the stock of the pistol.

Too scared to question the motive behind this recollection, she replied, "You came into my garden, knocked over my potted plants." She gaped, shoulder struts flicking up and down. "… Mirage …"

"Do you love me, Solarflare?"

_Yes, Yes, YES!_ her insides screamed. _A million times over._ "Yes," she whispered fiercely, unable to stem the flow of fluid that poured from her optics, ran in twin rivers down her face and leaked into her collar.

His head never moved; it remained down, focused on the barrel he was now swabbing. "M … mirage … please …" she fairly babbled, hands shaking with frustration and tears. " … please …" Through her tears, she saw that he, too, was shaking. Mirage put aside the pistol, the Q-tip, the bottle. He stood up slowly, pushed back the chair; through filmy eyes, Flare followed him as he lifted his head and opened his arms. A moment later, she was filling them, her head pressed into the hollow of his neck where his cables joined the rest of his frame. His hands dug fiercely into her plating, denting her in places that she'd catch hell for later, but she didn't care – not now, not ever. Her own talons slid out, scoring desperate lines in his armor.

"_I'm so sorry …" _

"_I know, Alina. Just stay with me." _

"_Yes,"_ she breathed, feeling his arms tighten, crushing her against his boxy chest as if he truly wished they were one body, one spark. And she would give that to him if she could.

"I love you, little bird," he whispered in her audio. There was no vocal reply from the wild avian femme; instead, she let him know in other ways.

Time slowed, and the world spun down to focus on them alone. In his arms, she found acceptance, and forgiveness. She was home, she was whole … and loved. That's all that mattered.

More raptor than robot – all Solarflare.

**Finis**


End file.
